


Where Spectres Rule

by Leliel12



Category: Changeling: The Lost, World of Darkness (Games), Worm - Wildbow
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Horror, Multiple Focus Characters, Trigger Warning: Emotional Abuse, long prologue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-09-11 17:29:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 39,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9000109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leliel12/pseuds/Leliel12
Summary: Come children. Take a seat around the fire. Let us tell the tale of a different Brockton Bay, where no Golden Man showed his face, the word "parahuman" was never used, and nobody speaks of people with powers.
Out loud.
Where no gods are, spectres rule; and the spectres are quite capable of being tormented heroes and fearsome villains. And as one Taylor Hebert finds out, are always looking for someone new to join their dance. Good thing she has a nice instructor, isn't it?
(Alternates between Taylor and Lisa main character arcs)





	1. Prologue: Campfire Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> So, yeah. Kind of ran out of steam for my other crossover fics, so I decided to do something a bit different, a full fusion fic of two canons-in this fiction, there has never been any difference between Earth Bet and the nWoD/CofD.
> 
> Fair warning, I use 2E settings and rules. I think it fits better with the moral ambiguity of Worm, not to mention the corebooks are better than their 1E version, fluff-wise.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an odd, affable old man by a campfire begins a long fairy tale.

Hm…?  
  
Why, hello there, dear friends. Didn’t hear you come by. I welcome you to my little hut, and my fire. Do you wish to come in?  
  
No?  
  
That was smart of you. But the winds here are quite chilled, quite cruel. It isn’t in my nature to allow my friends to be harmed, so please, take a seat by my fire. Don’t worry, it’s real flame. Won’t hurt you unless you stick your hand in.  
  
But I sense confusion from some of you. That is okay-confusion is normal. But your confusion about me, I can solve that too easily to leave as is. I am an old man-and an old man tells stories. That is all you need to know of me, as the story also tells you something of who the old man is.  
  
It is a fairy tale, mind you-a very long, very strange fairy tale, made even stranger because it took place in our world, though whether it was dreaming or waking varies from chapter to chapter. It is also a story about superheroes, like the ones in the comics you read, and perhaps still do.  
  
Yes, they are in this world too. Do not act so surprised-all that is necessary for one to be a superhero is power, a mask, and the ability to form a myth. There may not be an origin story from which all heroes and villains sprung, no golden man who was born from nothing, and no tormented gods who sprung from where he paced, although he did try before discovering-ah, but I am spoiling my own tale! Forgive my rambling.  
  
But there are heroes and villains nonetheless, and a golden man was involved. There are just no tormented gods who walk among mortals-the monsters among mortals have torment enough, and can be heroes and villains enough on their own. The major true difference between the world where the golden man walked free and the one where he did not is not that there are no masks, no capes. Merely, it is that in that world, the heroes are gods. In this world...  
  
I believe it is an affectation to open with a quote by a distinguished storyteller before launching into a tale, to frame its theme and mood. But it is an affectation I enjoy, for it calls to the theater born inside all of us. To wit, it was once said by the poet Novalis that, “Where no gods are, spectres rule.”  
  
On behalf of all the heroes and villains of this world, where there is not a single true god who walks the mortal plane:  
  
**_Boo._**

 


	2. Liminal 0.1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Taylor, an amateur occultist, makes a new friend, and the narrator begins his tale in the mundane side of the world.

 

* * *

 

 _Let us begin, with the tale of one of our heroines._

Once upon a time, there was a princess.

Mostly because the heroines of fairy tales are always princesses. It has nothing to do with actual blooded royalty. This princess was only such in that her father was monarch of the hands at sea port, the voice they turned to to protect them from greedy merchants. But she was indeed a princess in the sense of being loved above all others of the king’s treasures. The queen had met a most tragic end in a crushed carriage, an accident of fate, and in his grief, the king never found another-and because in this world, it is quite possible to read fairy tales about wicked stepmothers.

But alas, the princess’ troubles were just beginning. For her best friend had become an evil fair-faced witch through the whispers of a Moonlit Shadow, and with the Shadow and a girlish familiar at her side, made the life of the princess a living hell.

And there is where our tale begins…

 

* * *

 

Some people cheered themselves up by listening to music, something made much easier by the existence of iPods.

Ever since I got mine, I listened to mask stories.

 _“Thanks, Bec. I’m coming to you live from the Christner Medical chemical plant, where emergency crews are already searching the inside for more survivors. The fire appears to be under control-curiously, there appears to be no fatalities, and the worst injury appears to be severe second-degree burns on a non-critical area for several people. Eyewitness reports claim a “figure in a white hood” saved them from the worst of the fires while a “man in a tin mask” surrounded the flames in “force fields”, suffocating them and allowing the employees to evacuate. Officials are worried smoke from the incinerated medicines may have caused hallucinations, and have recommended even uninjured survivors stay in the hospital overnight…”_

Figure in a white hood, saving people from fires. That could be someone new, but I suspected Panacea, especially since I knew the other mask was Shielder, who generally showed up with her. The news didn’t like to show evidence of superpowers unless there was no other way of phrasing a story (like “save from the worst of the fires” instead of “healed the injuries already left”), so, that was another implication. There weren’t a lot of blatant healers (DukeBill had his theories on why Aegis flicked blood on the people he saved, but the the idea was it stabilized rather than healed). Of course, it could be someone new-

“Is the crazy girl trying to convince herself we live in a comic book again?”

The sarcastic part of my mind wanted to shoot back that yes, I was. In that world, Emma Barnes probably would not exist. Or she’d still be my friend.

I didn’t say that, though. Instead, I put the story on hold while I looked up at Emma-who wasn’t talking to me, directly, but the other members of the Terrible Trio, as I and several other people called the leaders of the bully pack that seemed to run Winslow. On the redhead model’s (I was not even kidding-Emma was more than attractive enough to get a side job modeling for teen wear) right side was Sophia Hess, swim star and brutally cunning muscle of the three (Emma handled the social side), and on her left was the abnormally young-looking (as in, I don’t think she ever aged past thirteen) Madison Clements, the prankster. Of course, said comment was _directed_ at me-she wouldn’t have said it loud enough to get past the earbuds otherwise.

I think me getting them off was the point though, because as soon as I looked up, Madison (who was very pointedly looking at her “friends”), said “We don’t? Could’ve fooled me-Taylor’s the centerpiece of a horror anthology!”

Giggles from both the swarm of popular girls and Emma-I honestly didn’t think Sophia was capable of any expression of joy beyond the small grin she cracked-indicated they wanted me to hear that. I wouldn’t lie and didn’t say it didn’t sting any more...but there was a silver lining, in that it wasn’t nearly as bad as I had been used to over the previous half-year. I think it was the cold I had over the previous week-I wasn’t around except for homework, so they lost interest and moved on to other targets.

Because she had been right, after all. When I realized I would never know why she hated me now, I thought-prayed-that a mask would come and stop it. Maybe even take me away, to a life of justice, because I had inherited my Mom’s hidden superpower, or Dad had been working on a secret project to never lose a loved one again, or whatever. But that faded too.

Masks were beings of hope, of power. Power the news said didn’t exist, but in the next sentence the news spent time on “rumors” and “mysterious figures”; it was more for the sake of seeming plausible enough to publish than anything, as Masquerade Party Online put it. Heroes saved you, of course, but criminals showed what you wanted was possible, if you had the will and guts to do it.

Winslow was a place where hope went to die.

 

* * *

 

Mr. Gladly, our social studies teacher, echoed the collective sigh of the room when Greg Vader put his hand up. Even he had his limits.

“What’s the mask-related question this time, Greg?” He used everyone’s first name to come off as friendly, but I got the sense that at this point, a competent teacher would be using it now anyway. Everyone knew a “Greg question.”

“How about Clark’s gravitation array?”

Huh, I thought this one would be about the Pentagon Earthquake, and from there Alexandria. But no, Greg had somehow managed to ask a question that was on a person we were actually discussing.

The inevitable response was not nearly as surprising. “Greg. We’ve been over this before…”

Exasperation….

“Clark Bell was an inventor and philanthropist, and many of the devices you use today have his mark on them.”

Asserting historical facts….

“He was not _Batman._ ”

Denial of Bell’s existence as a mask, or even that masks existed in the first place...

“Please stop taking up class time, or I’ll talk with the principle.”

And optional addition; empty threat of disciplinary action. There was a reason he kept asking them-or one reason. I didn’t want to think about other reasons. Greg was probably the poster child for _good reasons_ why people hated nerds. Evidence A: Scoffing slightly as he returned to his desk. “Yeah. Philanthropist to _France._ ”

At least it wasn’t an accusation of conspiracy. I suppressed a groan. Due to a quirk of desk positioning, Greg was usually my lab partner, and thus I kept things as professional as possible between us. Not _friends,_ but I didn’t want him to hate me-not that I wanted him to _like_ me either. Greg was one of those people who seemed to exist to be a punching bag for the rest of us, and an element to any good punching bag was ambiguity as to whether he deserved it or _holy shit,_ hold it right there, Taylor. Bad brain, no hypocrisy!

I really wasn’t sure where my new cynicism was coming from. Maybe being bullied day after day was really starting to convince my subconscious to pick on other people, put other people down to push me up. Fuck, was this what happened to Emma? Bullied so hard by Sophia she snapped and turned herself into a bully just to make it stop? Though I doubted Sophia would be so eager to make the Trio a Calamitous Quartet. I was far too much a part of her normal routine after two seasons.

Maybe I really should go to my Dad about antidepressants, if I ever managed to catch-

“As I was saying, the Beliun disaster was the first in a series of events that kicked off a number of political reforms in China; the citizens began to wonder exactly what was Communist about the ruling Party, if they didn’t actually care about the people of China…”

And with that, my mind started to wander. Even beyond the fact I found it hard to focus any more, the simple fact of the matter was that Mr. Gladly was not a person you went to to actually learn from. He always did strike me as a popular kid who became a teacher, someone who was pretty much everyone’s friend and wanted to bring that to his job. Which is to say, he tried to get the students to like him, and because of that, he didn’t really give any hard lessons. Or effective ones, as the fact that social studies was my worst class evinced. Though that may have been because Gladly was _also_ the teacher who deliberately paid the least attention to gloomy students-couldn’t be seen to be hanging out with uncool people.

“...so, yeah. Lot of reforms, everything old is new again, Confucius is back to being king of the roost…”

On a more petty note, the colloquial language. My mother, Annette, was a college professor of English, and she was very much clear on the difference between layman’s terms (which was how you taught meaningful technobabble to people who didn’t speak it yet) and language so dumbed down it became even more confusing. I mean, “reform” and “everything old is new again”? Gladly apparently didn’t have a dictionary with definitions helpfully under the words.

But I kept on trying to pick out likely questions on the test, even as I heard the suppressed giggle from the Terrible Trio’s area.

This task was made more difficult by a suited man barging in just as Gladly was getting into the most basic possible version of the Mandate of Heaven (American Myopia Edition-he focused a bit too much than was probably warranted on the fact that rebellion for a just cause was viewed as a healthy and normal part of the Mandate). A few students actually jumped at the slamming door.

Gladly blinked as the man fiddled with a pocketwatch, apparently adjusting the time. “...Can I help you?”

“Actually, yes,” the man said, taking out a series of test tubes and a knife. “I’m a health inspector-we’ve had reports of students feeling unsettled and upset lately, and we’ve decided to check for a particular compound. Tell me, have any students reported feelings of both restlessness and depression? Have you?”

“...Um?” Gladly confusedly gestured at his class. Four students (including me-I hadn’t been sleeping well lately) rose their hands.

The man whistled. “Ah. Good.” With that he scraped a bit of paint into a test tube and taped a chemical strip to the wall.

A chemical strip with emojis next to each block of color. Colorblind assistance, I guessed. Made by either committee or smartass, I couldn’t tell.

That strange episode of the way, the man walked off, checking his watch once more.

The hell was that all about?

 

* * *

 

There wasn’t health inspectors barging in for the rest of the day, but not because they weren’t present. Seemed every classroom had more of those emoji-printed strips pasted at the doors, and here and there were places where there was the same exact kind of scratch the sudden intruder left in Gladly’s room when he sampled the paint. I passed by another inspector on the way to computer lab, this one a woman in the same dress as her coworker. Same pocketwatch, too. Must have been office fashion, since I doubted NHS official policy cared if you could tell time from your wrist or hand.

But apart from the signs of their off-putting presence, school continued as normal. Well, slightly better than normal-the Terrible Trio was easing up, it seemed. However slightly; it was just snide comments about my appearance and “forgetting” to pass homework assignments to me once or twice.

Eventually, the closing bell came. Since it was about time for the holidays, that also signaled it was time for me to clean out my locker-Winslow hated it if you didn’t check your own storage for something that could rot. I suspected that this was because the janitorial staff didn’t bother to actually clean them over the holidays, because _this was Winslow._

Which had probably been what happened; even with my stuffy nose, I could detect a slight hint of rot. At least the silver lining for my sickness was being unable to tell much about that scent other than “it existed.”

So focused was I on the scent that I didn’t notice a representative of said janitorial staff until he thrust a broom handle in my face. With a squeak, I slipped, falling straight on my rear, to the all-too-familiar stifled giggles of other students.

Dusting myself off, I narrowed my eyes at the rude cleaner-who was a student, now that I got a good look at him. One of the hormone-addled morons who thought that the Trio were good potential dates because they were physically hot, and so spent most of their time with their noses in their asses in hopes of that not being a metaphor one day, I guessed.

Still, couldn’t let them know their would-be harem goon got to me. I forced a smile at the janitor. “Excuse me?”

He didn’t notice, instead focusing intently on my locker. Almost loping, he edged a bit closer, broom out in front of him like some kind of primitive spear hunter. With crinkled nose.

“...Um,” I began, more out of trying to make sense of the scene. “I don’t meant to be rude, but what-”

The janitor hit the lock with a quick jab of the broom, which suddenly flew off in two pieces-broken and cut. Before I could process this, he then used the handle to wrench open the door to reveal the source of the stench.

“-holy shit!”

Tampons. Bloody tampons. Enough to fill the locker. The smell, I realized was that of stale blood, and flies.

Behind me, I heard the voice of Sophia. “Mother-everyone move!”

At least ten sets of footsteps echoed through the halls. A quick glance showed a red curl-Emma’s, almost certainly-turn the corner. Guess they expected I wouldn’t check the side halls too thoroughly. Probably were right.

After the shock wore off, that’s when the horror came. What were they planning, putting fucking _bloody tampons_ in there? Shove me into it for a while until I begged for mercy? Or, I thought with a lurch, lock me in there and forget about me? I didn’t put it past them, I realized. Though I had to admire the deviousness of it, if the planner had realized I couldn’t smell anything (it was amazing how neutrally you could regard a failed scheme).

At least my accidental savior seemed to realize how sick what they were planning was, if his retching was any indication. Or maybe because, unlike me, he could smell the tampons perfectly well. After a few haggard coughs, he affixed me with a disbelieving gaze. “Please tell me putting all them... _rags_ in there wasn’t your idea?”

Huh. Southern accent. Didn’t get that much in the Eastern Coast. Or his distinct eyes-amber, almost completely golden-hued. I shook my head, numbly.

“Didn’t think so.” The janitor fished out a pair of clothespins from his back pocket, handing one to me. “Wouldn’t feel right then, asking you to help clean all this shit up.” He put his clothespin on, before taking out a clipboard with ‘Request for Professional Help’ on it.

I held up a hand. “Don’t. I’ll get a strike for not keeping my locker clean.” I wish I had been paranoid-I had been blamed for a fight with Sophia when I finally tried to slap her to get out of her wall press, and only avoided detention and a mark on my record because the normal monitor of detention was sick that day. “Don’t worry, I can clean it out-”

“Not alone, you ain’t.” The janitor took out a pair of gloves and a spare facemask. “It might be a lil’ chauvinist of me, but it ain’t right leaving a fine lady like yourself to clean up after whatever varmint swarm in human skin put _this_ in here. Or anyone, but especially a lady.” Handing them over, we started picking up the tampons and putting them in the trash bag.

About five minutes later, halfway through the pile, he snapped a gloved finger. “I _knew_ you from somewhere! Taylor Herbert, I reckon?”

I groaned. Apparently the world wasn’t satisfied with that being a frequent misspelling _in writing._ “Hebert,” I corrected. “No ‘R’. But you’re right.”

That’s when something occurred to me. “Wait, how do you know-”

“James Lawrence. I sit at the back of math class?”

It took me a second to place him. “Oh yeah! You’re that guy who’s always being told off for doodling monsters.”

“Masks,” he corrected, what little I could see of his mouth curling into a mischievous grin. “I do all my learning at home anyway, so I spend all my time making pictures to post on MPO. I go by Barghest04.”

Suddenly, he didn’t seem all that unfamiliar. “Wait, _you’re_ Barghest!?” I am not ashamed to admit I squealed a little. “Oh my god, I’m a huge fan! You’re fantastic-that way you captured Vista’s eyes was perfect I mean-that I should pick those up, shouldn’t I?”

I looked at the bloody, fly-covered rag I had dropped on James’ feet. Great Taylor. A pet minor celebrity of yours is attending your school, and you drop menstrual bloodstains on him. Genius.

“Nah, it’s cool. There’s worse in this school. Count yourself lucky that you aren’t on shower duty, especially when some asshole thinks chemistry plus linoleum equals hilarity.” He shivered. “Think one time actually dissolved the drain gate.”

I blinked. What was I supposed to say to that?

“...Um,” I eventually decided on. “Holy shit.”

“Language, little lady. We don’t profane the Lord with our profanity here-not when the subject is decidedly more infernal.” He laughed, more to indicate that was a joke more than anything.

From there until the pile was in the bag, neither James nor I had much to say-too busy shoveling tampons. We did talk about some of his art pieces, his representation of Armsmaster in particular (my favorite-Hero may not have been Batman, but _Armsy_ sure was), but that was ultimately uninteresting to anyone except other mask fanatics and fan art critics.

Eventually though, as we started to reach the end of the pile. James coughed awkwardly. “So...if you didn’t put these in here…?”

“The Trio did,” I finished, glumly. Part of me really didn’t want to talk about this, but something about the student janitor made him seem trustworthy enough. “They’ve been at me all year.”

“Ah.” A pause. “I know this might sound a little intrusive of me, but you want to talk about it over burgers?”

If I had a drink in my mouth, I would have spat it out. Instead, I just mouthed, stupidly. “...Did...Did you just _flirt?_ ”

“Ah, nope. I’m gay.” Oh. Order in the universe restored. Sadly-guy was kind of cute, in an aw-shucks good ol’ boy way. Quite deliberately, I suspected. “I’m actually asking to see if we can be friends-it gets lonely, back of the class with nothing but drawing easels.”

“You’re on!” I said, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. I desperately needed a stranger to chat with. “I’ll pay.”

“Aw, thank ya! Trust me, the pleasure is all mine. And please-call me Jimmy.”  
****

> * * *
> 
>  

 **Mini-Interlude: Principal Blackwell**

“What do you mean, ‘surprise inspections’!?”

Principal Blackwell considered herself a very competent administrator. Perhaps not the best teacher in the world, certainly not the most honest (though she blamed the government for that-no funding equals either a dead school or other sources). But she cared deeply about Winslow as an institution, and in her humble opinion, the glue that held the whole sorry enterprise together (certainly not her employees-a big thing should would have with actual money would be lobbying the teachers’ unions for permission to strike tenure from a few people she could name, as opposed to more steps in the dance of the lemons).

Which was why the discovery that apparently, the health department was investigating was even more of a personal cause for alarm than it should be.

The vice principal, an unassuming mousy-looking woman, shrugged. “I don’t know, I just got the memo.”

“I-Get the kitchen staff in here.” Blackwell rubbed her forehead, an oddly casual gesture coming from a woman who constantly dressed like she was going to a funeral. “We’ll see what moron’s decided my regulations don’t apply to them, fire them, and-”

“Um, no.” The vice principal shrugged. “It’s about paint.”

Okay, _that_ wasn’t expected. “Paint?”

“Apparently there was a problem with a batch about a year back.” The other woman looked at her clipboard. “Something about the hue being a, and I quote, ‘mood depressor’.”

But the walls hadn’t been repainted for two-

...Wait a minute.

She could use this.

“I see,” she said, keeping her face impassive.

Better alibi that no one else knew, 

 

* * *

 

“I know you’re not here about the paint.”

The suited man blinked. “Sorry?”

“I did some digging,” Blackwell said as she leaned against the wall, a calculated attempt at showing her confidence. “Besides the fact that these walls haven’t been repainted in four years, it’s paint _fumes_ that cause melancholia. Not to be vain, but we have a pretty good air conditioning system around here.”

The inspector didn’t give any sign of being worried. In fact, he seemed more mildly amused than anything else, a slight smile coming to his face. “But machines break. Or jam. Sometimes in ways no one human knows.”

“Nice try, but no.” Blackwell glanced at the latest scar in the paint. “If you were actually concerned about fumes, you’d be putting gas sensors up, not...whatever those strips are.” She leaned in. “The point being, you’re not here about gas, and I suspect your bosses are in on whatever it is.”

The inspector cocked his head. “I fail to see how that affects me.”

“It won’t. Not necessarily.” Blackwell flashed her own smirk. “See, Winslow, the institution, is mostly regarded as vestigial. Low-income students, incompetent teachers, extraneous compared to Arcadia-so they keep on cutting our funding. It’s gotten to the point where we can barely pay for paper in bulk-using our assigned budget, anyway.”

The inspector nodded, his grin widening a little. “So. You wish compensation for not looking into our real business, here?”

Blackwell shrugged. “More or less. I need money, you need to not raise controversy for whatever pet project the government is planning on. So really-”

“Can you sleep on it?”

Blackwell blinked. “Sorry?”

The inspector winced. “Sorry, I misspoke. I meant to say this is kind of a thing that needs to be slept on-work out a proper deal that benefits the both of us.”

Okay, that made sense. “Deal,” she replied.

And promptly fell unconscious

 

* * *

 

The Alienation Assurance Tester’s smile didn't waver as his words took effect, sending the headmistress into a quick and currently dreamless slumber. Bureaucrats. So adorable, thinking they knew how blackmail worked. This one had potential, what with her perceptiveness-though not her recklessness. Really, if he had the time or inclination, he would teach her the real art of the enforced deal. But he was never one for pets, in house or patroned-he had too many allergies.

He pulled out his cell, already dialed. “Isabella, you got all that?”

“Yes, I did,” his co-worker replied. “Also-oops. Knew I should have checked the teachers for our special not taking in adult minds.”

“Oh, it’s fine. She gave me a good laugh.” The smile fell, replaced by calm professionalism. “It’s still your fault though. You have that protean mask, or must I owe another favor to the noppera-bo?”

Isabella sighed, her native accent giving the sound an oddly musical quality. “Fine, fine. You get the fun job, I sit in her office all day.”

“That is equitable. Charles out.”

With that, he dragged the unconscious human to the side, put his finger by her temple, and bid the dream to start.

“Now,” he mused to himself, as astral energy swam into existence within his true eyes. “What shall convince you I was scheduled to come…?”


	3. Liminal 0.2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Taylor discusses the true nature of the world with Jimmy Lawrence, practices her occult knowledge for online peers, and we meet an erudite hobo.

* * *

Honestly, the not-a-date could have gone better. It wasn’t Jimmy’s fault at all-I just had been so estranged from social eating that table manners and I needed to remember each other’s names.  
  
I could _feel_ the red in my cheeks. “Can we pretend that _didn’t_ happen?” I said, pulling off the bit of burger on my face.  
  
Jimmy chuckled. “Nah, you’re nowhere close to the worst I’ve met. Third generation military brat here-I got a pa who can’t remember his lunch is not three minutes long. Or is not MREs, so it’s best to not taste them.”  
  
I rose an eyebrow. “MREs?”  
  
“Rations. It’s short for Meals, Ready to Eat-officially.” He smirked. “The preservatives they use, dependin’ on the seasoning, make Meals Refusin’ to Exit or Massive Rectal Explosions more accurate. No middle ground, unless ya count ‘both’.”  
  
I winced. “Guess you don’t join the Army because you want the nice food.”  
  
“Hardly. They actually ruined a chocolate bar _on purpose_ so that troops wouldn’t eat unless they really have to. The prototype didn’t work-because it tasted _so bad_ that troops thought starving was a better plan!” He chuckled. “My dad was full of those stories.”  
  
I blinked. “Was?”  
  
The cheer vanished. “Car bomb in Afghanistan. Killed year before last.”  
  
It took all of my willpower to not attempt to _physically_ kick myself. “...I’m sorry.”  
  
“Thanks. But he died makin’ sure he was the only one that bastard got.” He looked out the window, smiling wistfully. “Bit of a hardass, but man was a goddamn action hero. Really, his stories are how I got interested in masks to begin with.” He shrugged. “Weird stuff happens in the field he said. Pa swore his unit fought a vampire once.”  
  
My jaw dropped. I was pretty sure something that was the source for stories of the undead existed but nobody on Masquerade Party Online even had friend-of-a-friend stories, just a bunch of obscure studies by some Fortean scientific hobbyist club and Network Zero videos.  
  
He apparently saw my reaction. “Ever here about a varmint called a penanggal? Looks like a living lady during the day, her head rips itself off at night to feed on the blood of babies? Dad said his unit saw one in noggin mode while on a peacekeepin’ tour in Cambodia.” He paused for a second. “Or to be accurate, he saw a shadow that looked an awful lot like a head draggin’ it’s own guts along like some kind of gory octopus. She realized he was lookin’ at her, blasted him with this banshee shriek they have-that’s what convinced them it was a penanggal-and when he came to, there was a huge chunk missin’ out of his arm. Worse, penanggals have this wastin’ disease in their bite that can only be solved by feeding a piece of their livers to the victims, so he was sick for weeks. He came to, though-and it turns out he was able to leave her with a nice shotgun shell to the face. One of the native nurses who everybody knew to be kind of creepy came in wearing a surgical facemask; some other native heard his story and put two and two together and the unit followed the nurse home and saw her detach. Realizin’ the game was up, the penanggal let ‘em have a bit of her liver and agreed to skip town if they kept her secret away from any vampire hunters.”  
  
I raised an eyebrow. “Your dad ate human liver?”  
  
“ _Ex_ -human liver. And penanggalan are undead-they don’t need all of it, it’s not doin’ much to begin with.” He shrugged. “Can’t imagine he liked the taste, though.”  
  
That _had_ to have been the elder Lawrence having a bit of fun at his son’s expense. People couldn’t rip their heads out of their bodies and put them back, good as new, superhuman predatory species-slash-symbiotic blood-eating parasite or not. Yes, I believed in psychic powers, but some things just stretched credulity. And feeding someone infected liver seemed to me like it would make the problem _worse._  
  
And uh, cannibalism used as a remedy. Ew.  
  
But I nodded anyway, humoring him. “Not sure if I wish my dad had as interesting stories. He’s a union leader for the Docks.”  
  
Jimmy leaned forward, raising his eyebrows. “Come now, darlin’. Surely there’s a lost city inhabited by angry fish people who are fans of human hybridization in there somewhere. Maybe one of his buddies told him over drinks?”  
  
“If he did, I wouldn’t know.” I shrugged. “I...really don’t want to begin a hand of misery poker, but my mom’s dead, too. Last year.”  
  
The smile vanished again. “...You want to talk about it?”  
  
“No. I’ve learned to deal with it,” I lied. “But...Dad hasn’t.”  
  
Jimmy folded his hands over the table, leaning on his elbows. “I won’t tell if you don’t want me to.”  
  
“...Okay,” I said, finally feeling ready to open up to him-unlike with the school counselor. Probably because Jimmy was still a stranger to me, mostly. “He’s been at home less and less, it feels like. He’s rarely back before I’m asleep, and when I’m up for breakfast, he’s already preparing to leave. He keeps contact over the phone, but he’s...missed. He’s trying to throw himself into his work to move on, I guess.”  
  
_And may blame me,_ I didn’t add. I could put off that breakdown for another day. I didn’t need to compound my bully problems with the survivor guilt that I had been texting Mom at the time of the crash. One trauma at a time.  
  
Jimmy winced. “That ain’t right. My ma’s often on a work trip, but I’ve got my big sis; a teenager without an adult guardian just ain’t safe. Especially in _this_ city,” he said, lowering his voice down and pointing at the window.  
  
Following his finger, I saw a group of men wearing the colors of the Azn Bad Boys, a mixed-Asian ethnicity gang that was fairly notorious on MPO for almost certainly having mask members, if their leader wasn’t one himself. Currently, they were having an organized glare at unknowing...military troops?  
  
I blinked. Yep, those five bench-warmers were definitely wearing government-issued camouflage fatigues. And the street toughs were almost snarling at them.  
  
I didn’t know whether to gawk at their chutzpah or their stupidity. I settled on both.  
  
Jimmy apparently caught on. “See that, right there? That’s the look of fish who live in a big pond but are even bigger than that. They rule the coup ‘round these parts, and now even Uncle Sam’s just another fish musclin’ in on their turf. And they’ll get away with it too: see that patch?”  
  
I looked at the Army guys (and gals-two were women, I realized) a little closer. Sure enough, there was a strangely sinister-looking patch: almost like a cyclops butterfly with question marks for wings. And I didn’t recognize the language of the motto. “Yeah, I do.”  
  
“That’s the patch of Company Alpha of the First and Second Battalions of the 231st Recon Section. Fort Harmon’s guards.”  
  
The name jogged a memory. “The plastics depot?”  
  
“Try ‘experimental warfare lab’ and you’re gettin’ close. Among military nerds who’ve seen past the sheep, they’re also known for being one of the most haunted bases on the continent. More importantly,” he said, a note of annoyance creeping into his voice, “They’re almost always under orders to never even tell people off. Somethin’ my pa told me.”  
  
As I checked, I saw the older of the two women glance back at the gangers, a hand instinctively reaching at something under her gear, only for what was the apparently youngest of the men to raise a hand. He mouthed something at her, pointing at the gangers. Expressionless, the other soldier let her hand drop away from her pocket.  
  
I looked away, grimacing. “And people wonder why I don’t like authority. Even the Army is useless.”  
  
We sat for a while after that, quietly finishing our burgers.  
  
Eventually, though, a bit of an impish smile came to his face. “Well, since we’re into disobeying authority anyhoo...wanna see my place? Nothing untoward-though that’s uh, not my thing to begin with-I’d think my sis would like you, share some of my pa’s old stories.”  
  
On the one hand, he was a near-complete and almost total stranger who I just met earlier that day.  
  
On the other, he was probably the first stranger in a while that had ever bothered to show concern for me in over a year. And I knew him well enough through his art.  
  
And to be frank, there was just something about him that made me feel calmer than I had for months. Like there was nothing to be afraid of.  
  
But I was, for all my dad issues, a good girl.  
  
“Can I do it tomorrow, after I clear it with Dad first? He hates it when I don’t tell him if I’m staying out.”  
  
He shrugged. “Probably the smart thing to do. Parents oughta know where their children are.”

 

* * *

  
My house was, increasingly, a place whose quality provided its own security system. Once, it was actually a pretty upscale place-then the family inside it was broken.  
  
Ever since then, the house matched my father’s own mental state, particularly from two months ago on, where the mud of the docks apparently decided there was room for a tenant, I had given up on trying to scour the earthy invader, resulting in a telltale _squish_ noise whenever I or Dad walked in. An effective little, disgusting doorchime.  
  
Speaking of Danny Hebert, he wasn’t there. I had been, in retrospect, somewhat exaggerating how often he was missing; he only arrived too late to see me awake about five times in a month. But he was late more often than not.  
  
Truth be told, I was likely being a little harsh in my assessment when I said he was likely trying to drown his sorrows in work. Mom’s salary, while not the highest in the world, was still that of a college professor at a fairly prestigious college (for a state college, at any rate). With her gone, that meant Dad was the _only_ breadwinner, and for a union leader that meant overtime, as he had explained the night before he started coming back late.  
  
Of course, at some point, I had to wonder exactly how much paperwork there could be in a day, if it took him upwards of four hours after finishing his shift for the day on occasion, and weekends always. At some point, there’s only so many things to be reported on and lobbied over.  
  
But gone he was. So instead, I just pulled up the at-home laptop and logged online to MPO. For the longest time, we didn’t have internet or even a computer, right up until Mayor Christner began an initiative to make broadband access available to all regardless of income. Dad realized the Internet was the future of anything involving a community like a union, so he was one of the first sign-ups. Wasn’t nearly as fast as the school’s, but it gave me something to do other than jog and possibly miss him coming back while on the jog.  
  
I was what MPO called one of their “face-chasers”, one of the hobbyists that tried hard to put masks in context with the rest of the world. Finding a trace of the face behind the mask. I wasn’t after their _identities,_ mind you: everyone knew that “superhero” plus “public identity” equals “hostaged/dead loved ones”, while changing the first term to “supervillain” meant “dead _you._ ” Rather, everyone who lurked on MPO’s forums (really, any part of the occult internet) came to admit a truth-ancient peoples who wrote myths generally were _not_ imparting morals or explaining how the seasons worked, but putting a name to how strange the world could be. For the sake of sanity, public history chose to forget this, a state of affairs that by all appearances the strangeness was perfectly fine with. One search for news of the weird would tell you just how little effect that had on the world’s memory; you learned to spot the difference between fake and merely obscured extremely fast, if you put your mind to it.  
  
Most of it _was_ fake, but the fact I had to pick up that skill already impressed on me just how wild and weird the world was.  
  
First, I did a quick check on an article about some bizarre lights over Vancouver. Much to my pleasure, the url lead to a “Deleted article” page-real news, besides being found in the obscure parts of the Internet, had a bizarre tendency to disappear. Or maybe not so strange-a psychic probably knew how to work a computer too, and a large portion of the social engineering parts of hacking could just be skipped by said psychic waving their hand at the admin and going “You are going to delete this page” (couldn’t say I blamed them-see “Salem, History of”). Not that it mattered to me; two months back the nonprofit that ran MPO, Network Zero, hosted an amature ghost hunting contest. I placed in the top ten (at eighth, but given how there was 46 registered entrants in that particular competition I was still pretty proud of myself), so I got a free, and pretty hardy, USB stick out of the deal. One I could save articles too, if I had my suspicions about the veracity of an article and decided it would be shoved down the memory hole. A quick search through my hard drive, and there it was, in all of its green-ink glory.  
  
Also, apparently my “mentor”, Skeptical_Jacobin, was rubbing off. He was a British member of some Fortean scientific research team. Nul Mysteries or something to that effect, he told me the name exactly once and I had deleted that email out of habit. I was now using his favorite slang for the kind of capital letters and exclamation point abuse that one associated with news of the weird. Some of it was even intentional, he said-less respect means less attention.  
  
Word salad or no, the writer did manage to be clear about the reports of said lights; three or so of the eyewitnesses managed to confront one of the lights up close, and all reported images of the same being, an “octopus with wings for tentacles” (okay, one said “cuttlefish”. Not that big of a difference, if a bit of a weird term to resort to). All three were reported to the hospital feeling feverish, all had a strange series of sunburns that looked like Hebrew lettering… even a few pictures of the burns, before they healed completely ten minutes later. A quick pull-up of the respective alphabet, and-yep, that was definitely too straight an edge, too clear a delineation between rash and normal skin to be not artificial.  
  
It didn’t take a genius to realize that maybe the letters were a message of some point, but I didn’t (a) know how to input Hebrew letters on a QWERTY keyboard, and (b) the language itself well enough to arrange the letters into a coherent word without a migraine. So off to the private face-chaser channel with my data.  
  
♦Topic: Possible Leads  
In: Boards ► General ► North America ► Face-Chaser Brigade (Private)  
  
> **Rose-Haired Lady**  
Posted on December 20th, 2010:  
  
Remember those lights I was talking about? Well, I got a copy of the article they were in, along with my notes. Apparently they left something behind.  
  
Download here.  
  
From there, I just went back to my browsing. It took the serious face-chasers at least twenty minutes to respond to an evidence post, and most of those took longer to verify the info from their own backlogs and what little public evidence wasn’t eaten by the memory hole.  
  
Probably a good thing too, as I heard a telltale _squish._  
  
“Hi Dad,” I said, not turning around as I made another search for a particular report of poltergeist activity. “Not a lot of work today?”  
  
“No.” He sounded distracted today. “The union hasn’t met for three days, and this isn’t a time for part time workers. There just wasn’t much paperwork today-but I need to send a couple emails, so if you could let me have the computer for ten minutes?”  
  
I turned around shrugging. “Finished the blog post I was working on, anyway.”  
  
He smiled-or attempted one, at any rate. “Thanks, kiddo. I’ll make dinner tonight, if you can stand waiting.”  
  
My dad wasn’t exactly the Hunk of the Year to begin with, being the “platonic idea of the skinny geek”, as he used to put it. But Mom’s death plus working his rear off every damn day definitely wasn’t doing his health any favors. His hair, already thinning, was going prematurely grey and becoming rather wispy, hanging off his head in mist-like strands. He had thinned even further, becoming almost skeletal from his previous beanpole thinness, and his eyes seem clouded over somehow; I had worried he might be developing cataracts, but no, he said his vision was no worse than normal. Even his glasses seemed kind of worn and smudged, like he had been working with something very hot that had mildly scorched them.  
  
I considered asking him about going to Jimmy’s house (I think I would rather eat the mud than allow my new friend to see just how shabby our home was), but I realized it was probably wasn’t polite to interrupt my father when he was trying to keep electricity running in winter. Besides, I needed my jog.  
  
I silently nodded, leaving Dad to his work.

 

* * *

  
My general jog path was calculated to avoid as much of Brockton Bay’s urban areas as possible, on the basis that I was a teenage, unaccompanied girl, and much of the city was occupied by gangs. At _best,_ it would be one of the neo-Nazi Empire 88 deciding to shake down a poor stupid white girl for the “privilege” of being protected by them, at worst...there was more than one reason the ABB was infamous.  
  
Thus, my jog was mostly around the Docks-I knew them by heart due to regularly going there with Dad when I was younger. The Docks did not change-the ships did, and quite regularly, but the old port was and remained largely the same old set of piers and outcrops it always was. Here and there, there were signs of construction that was never finished, signs of refurbishment that always seemed to fail due to budget constraints. The police department drained the rest of the city dry, and the worse part was, I think they needed all that money. Only city with a worse crime problem than us was Detroit.  
Which was actually something of an anomaly. Brockton Bay actually had a pretty strong economy, all other things being equal. Even the employment situation wasn’t that bad-it’s just that there wasn’t many _good_ jobs, though even the reason for that was a bit of a mystery. We didn’t have a lot of jobs that were killed by automation and shipping was never a thing that was going out of business, but nope-a lot of people didn’t have enough to pay for the rent, so that meant crime…  
  
Or becoming what I nearly tripped over during my half-mile through what everyone called the Boat Graveyard, a large junkyard filled with (unsurprisingly) decommissioned ship hulls, not far from the docks.  
  
Really, he was extremely well camouflaged, a real testament to just how ignorable the homeless were in the right conditions. I only saw him after he yelped.  
  
“Oh god! I am so sorry, I really didn’t see you-”  
  
“It’s fine. Nothing was injured”  
  
The first thing I noticed about the man beyond his shabbiness was his voice. For one, it was...cultured, for back of a better term. That voice belonged to a college professor, not a street bum. Maybe he was, and got screwed over by said poor jobs. We weren’t exactly a college town, given how only one high school out of _five_ was functional. Not mine.  
  
The second was the complete _calmness_ of it. Like he’d merely yelped to get my attention-which wouldn’t be surprising, given the collection tin at his side.  
  
But I didn’t really blame the destitute for wanting money. Better getting the soft-hearted to be charitable than robbing them, I say. It certainly worked-I was too young for a job, but ever since he started coming home late, he gave me a generous allowance to buy food for myself, and extra. I started to fiddle for the “extra” as an apology to the old beggar, but then he cleared his throat.  
  
“Where were you headed in such a hurry, that you ran me over?”  
  
I blinked. “N-Nowhere, actually. I was just running for exercise.”  
  
“Hm.” I couldn’t see much of his face behind his coat, but I could tell from his arms that he had not had a regular diet for years. “I would think that in this city, it would be a good idea to know how to run. But running for practice here? That would put you in situations where running is advised. Especially for someone who is...fourteen? Fifteen?”  
  
It took me a second to catch on. I shrugged. “I get it. But I avoid dangerous areas, and the gangs don’t like the Docks’ activity, so-”  
  
“But there is more than gangs, isn’t there?” The bum sat up. “Look to the writings of statisticians and scholars-it is not the stranger that is truly feared, but the friend.”  
  
Okay...wow, this conversation got uncomfortable fast. “...Er, how much do you want, I can afford up to-”  
  
“Do you see my pendant?” The beggar retrieved a medallion from under his shirt.  
  
Really, it wasn’t anything I would have noticed, normally. It was a New Age-esque nicknack, a crucifix overlaying a pentacle. What I did notice was how _clean_ it was-almost like it was defying the dust of the man who was wearing it, taunting the grime with its shine.  
  
The man looked up, though I still couldn’t see his eyes under his hood and hat. “Do you see a paradox? Two faiths that cannot live in peace? Paganism and monotheism?”  
  
...Um, what?  
  
Not bothering waiting for an answer, the man continued. “Your vision is clouded by time and the decay of history. Pentacles were never a truly pagan symbol-no, the original users of the symbol were as much people of the second book as the users of the cross are today.”  
  
In spite of my growing suspicions the man was nuts, my curiosity was piqued. Besides, it sounded like he needed someone to talk at “Really? I always thought of it as being more, well, _Satanic._ ”  
  
He snorted. “A lie! A lie that has become truth, for it is an enemy of a greater lie!” He started playing with the pendant, seemingly to symbolize his point. “Modern peoples, they have forsaken spirit in favor of comfort, and so they forget the meaning of the star-or is it the diagram?”  
  
With that, he held the pendant to his face, tracing the inlaid circle. “It isn’t a star. It’s a list of wounds-nails driven through hands and feet, the ragged holes of a crown of thorns.”  
  
...And now, simple stars were a fuckton creepier. “Oh. That’s...nice.”  
  
“No, not nice. But holy.” He put it down, gazing wistfully at the ocean. “A sacrifice, pain taken unto the self to relieve the all. Malice corrupted by the willing and made salvation. Such is the paradox of heroes.”  
  
I blinked. “Sorry?”  
  
“Pain is the clay, virtue is the fire. Good is not born in spite of evil, but from it-the dark is the mother, the light her child. The thorns are coronation-but some are not rose, but nettle.”  
  
He turned to me now. “The crown is woven for you, but half its barbs are tipped with poison. There are doors in this path. They lead to the same place, but one is through an iron maiden, one with a smiling coffin. The pain does not commiserate-you find light regardless, but the mother in dark does not neglect, but strike. Beauty is a warning in butterflies, and the strangers take flight on both colorful and gossamer wings. You are fleeing the flame, but the bed that they have made you is chained and made of rusted nails.”  
  
I started to back away, slowly.  
  
“All heroes are born of torment, but there is torment that purifies and that which is pointless. Seek pain, but pain born of virtue-not of the schemes of the wicked. So much of this world is pointless-do not let your journey be one of them. Be watchful- _she_ is waiting for you!”  
  
My run from that point was a bit faster than it had been.  
  
It was only after I finally felt safe enough to slow down that I realized something-I had never seen his face. Only his grey, matted beard, and flesh that hung off his bones.

 

* * *

 

**Mini-Interlude: Greg Vader**

  
If Greg was not Greg, maybe at some point he would have realized romantic comedies are not a good guide to romance.  
  
If Greg’s life were a movie, besides him having something resembling the ability to recognize worsening hygiene on command, it would start around the time he was perpetually assigned to Taylor as her lab partner. There was a slip, an embarrassing situation ensured, but the first sign life was not going to give him any traction with the demure ingenue convinced of her own ugliness was not being slapped or said slip being in a public place to demonstrate her performance under pressure. Rather, she apologized, stealthily retrieved a change of shirts, and absolutely nobody other than Greg or Taylor himself ever noticing something had gone awry with the soap. The second hint that his life was not a movie was him not overhearing the Locker Prank at a convenient time, which would allow him to do what any decent fucking human would do and save the female lead of Insert Witty Title Here from humiliation, which would lead to the budding romance  
  
The third, of course, was this-rather than the nutcase bum attacking Taylor and solving Greg’s problem of trying to meet Taylor on her run route and saying something that would make him not seem like a total creep (even Greg knew what following Taylor around, trying to talk to her, looked like from the outside), Taylor had sped off, leaving the hobo staring at the snow kicked up by her tennis shoes (seriously? Tennis shoes? Taylor must have been poorer than he thought).  
  
But Greg was Greg, and being Greg, he based most of his worldview on romance on chick flicks, seeing as how the simplified versions of the tangled, fourth-dimensional knot of hormones, ideals, delusions, truths, and when fulfilling the dual purpose of cementing close social bonds and reproduction, moans, that was human romance. Chick flicks, after all, didn’t make his brain hurt. Instead, he convinced himself that the bum was planning to rush Taylor later, so it was best to follow him and wait for the proper moment to save her.  
  
You had to be persistent, after all. The movies would be over in 15 minutes if the guy gave up on the first shot, especially when his romantic rival had made his choreographed appearance (the boy he called Whatshisface-Greg didn’t remember seeing him around earlier, but it really wouldn’t be that surprising, he didn’t really pay attention to most of his classmates or remember their faces).  
  
“...Well,” he said. “I can’t be faulted for trying.”  
  
Of course, that was still a very mean thing to say to a girl (especially one Greg knew was in his league), so he prepared to walk over to the hobo, give him a piece of his mind, and-  
  
“Hm? ...Ah. Greetings, noble spirit.”  
  
For a moment, Greg tensed as the bum turned a bit...then realized he was talking to the building opposite his makeshift bed.  
  
“You need not fear me. I’m not yet breaking the oath.” The hobo brought his legs to his chest, tilting his head. “The rules say that those uninvolved may not disrupt the forming tale, no? From where I see it, the path I led young Hebert towards actually leads to your advantage.”  
  
...Greg tensed. There was no way this man could have known her name. Not without stalking.  
  
The irony of the situation was completely lost on him.  
  
“You’re right. _I_ don’t gain anything. It is simply an act of charity on my part. An ineffectual act, to be certain, but a more substantive effort would deny her destiny.”  
  
Not on his watch. Slowly, Greg got out the taser in his back pocket, and hid behind the nearby dumpster.  
  
The man bowed his head. “Isn’t it obvious? I wouldn’t wish that path on my worst enemy; Taylor is fated to be my best.”  
  
On the other hand, this gave him the chance to really make a good impression. Tapping the switch on the taser, Greg began to think of the best time to pull the trigger-would it be just after the bum got out his knife, or should he wait for Taylor to trade a few blows with him? The latter option assumed she was strong enough to defend herself, but the former lacked a certain _oomph_ to it, one that might conflict with him being a real action hero saving the maiden.  
  
So lost was he in planning the scene he didn’t notice the bum suddenly sniffing the air, and his unseen eyes narrowing in irritation.  
  
A truly massive migraine hit Greg luck a truck. Groaning, he dropped the taser to the ground, kneeling as he held his head to prevent it from exploding.  
  
Through the pain, Greg heard the scuffing sound of heavy boots grow louder, stopping just as they reached him “...This is not your fate, Gregory. It is best you sleep soundly-for your own sake.” The boots started up again, scuffing away.  
  
The migraine suddenly abated, and Greg hesitantly got up, the vision of the hobo’s makeshift post swimming back into view.  
  
It was like he was never there.


	4. Liminal 0.3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Taylor makes a few discoveries: 
> 
> One, the supernatural is only a block away at most. 
> 
> Two, her father is involved in dark matters beyond his understanding.
> 
> Three, it is an unspoken rule of the universe that she can never, ever be happy.

* * *

 

Trying very hard to put the crazy man out of my mind, I set my task to a different business of great difficulty:

  
“You’re doing _what!?_ ”  
  
Convincing Dad that ‘daughter going to house of strange boy he has never met’ was entirely innocent.  
  
“No seriously, I just want to know him better, I haven’t even met his sister-”  
  
“That’s the _problem-_ ”  
  
“And it will cease to be one if you just let me do this-”  
  
“Why not here-”  
  
“Dad, I love you too much to answer that question honestly-”  
  
“Okay, okay, stop. Please.” He pinched his nose, a gesture I knew was him slowing down his breathing enough to think rationally. Dad had something of a temper, something he showed a lot more of before Mom died, but he was serious about controlling it. I waited for him to cool his engines, not wanting to begin a screaming match.  
  
A few seconds later, he opened his eyes, calm-ish again. “Start from the beginning. You know this...James Lawrence by his screename and art.”  
  
“Mostly,” I admitted. “I’ve only known the man behind the drawings for the past couple days. Which is why I’m seeing him _at his house_ ,” I quickly corrected. “He literally isn’t capable of being like that with me-he’s gay.”  
  
That didn’t seem to calm Dad very much.”That still doesn’t mean you know much more about him.”  
  
“No, which is why I’m meeting him, get to know him better.”  
  
Dad bit the inside of his lip. “...O...kay. I...think I’ll let you go.”  
  
I tilted my head. “But?”  
  
“ _But_ I am coming with you.”  
  
Relief shot through me. I had to introduce Jimmy and my father eventually, and _for all that was holy_ I didn’t want it to be at my house. Mud doorbell and all.  
  
“Okay, then. I’ll go shoot him a message.”  
  
Nodding, Dad went back to his papers, frowning at a particular equation while fiddling with a rather nice pen, as I started working on the message to my first friend in months.

 

* * *

  
The first meeting between my Dad and Jimmy went…  
  
Fantastically boring.  
  
“Taylor’s old man, I reckon.” Jimmy smiled (not grinned, smiled-less mischievous aura) and held out a hand. “James Lawrence. Though if you wouldn’t mind-”  
  
“Call you Jimmy,” Dad finished, shaking his hand. “Daniel Hebert, call me Mr. Hebert. I don’t know you well enough to be called Danny, I think.”  
  
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Jimmy opened the door to his apartment to let us in, typing something on a cell. “Anyhoo, sis is goin’ to be back in a tad. Please, make yourselves at home.”  
  
Jimmy’s apartment was...sparse, honestly. Very spartan, about the homiest thing being the various paintings of farms and a large carpet that looked like a giant grain field, along with. It looked more like a somewhat ergonomic cubicle than anything else-a very large ergonomic cubicle. With a bedroom.  
  
Speaking of, said bedroom had two beds, one of which had to be his. It was _covered_ in drawing instruments, and various incomplete sketches. Some were masks, certainly, but a lot of other things looked like runic circles on some fantasy-action anime screenshots that people on MPO liked to share, and others of a surreal wilderness that reminded me of a modern Alice in Wonderland more than anything. At the foot was a beaten-up old laptop, fans humming quietly in sleep mode.  
  
The other bed was...sparse. Neat, professional, apparently just made. All I could see that someone actually ever used it was the red hair and white on the sheets. Which, upon closer inspection, appeared to be black at the roots.  
  
Jimmy caught me inspecting said hair, raising an eyebrow. “Pardon me for bein’ rude, but is there something about sis’ hair that enthralls you?”  
  
Eep. I dropped the hair, trying to look composed in front of my equally skeptical father. “Er, um-what dye does she use? It looks pretty.”  
  
He looked up at my hair. “Bit of advice from the queer eye, darlin’-your hair’s fine as is. Keep it fluffed and dark, it’s better that way.”  
  
I could _taste_ the blush coming to my face. “Please...not in front of Dad…”  
  
“All right then.” Jimmy turned to Dad, who had risen his eyebrow even further. “So, Mr. Hebert-since we ain’t been introduced yet, how about I ask you your job?”  
  
“Union leader,” Dad said, sounding a little perturbed. “I keep the docks together.”  
  
“Eh, can’t reckon I agree with your career choice, but that’s little ol’ me. It’s just politics.” He shrugged. “You got your convictions, I got mine.” Dad relaxed a little at that; he had to deal with enough crap from corporations to tolerate the hate mail he got for being a very blue profession. Thankfully, there wasn’t very much, but there was one time where he got mixed up in a scandal involving some illegal dumping in the Bay, proving to me that no matter how cut-and-dry the case, there will be at least one loud idiot who insists that his political allies are always right, it’s reality that’s mistaken, and determined enough to mail the same letter to everyone that was named as said allies’ rivals. Nice to deal with someone sane. “Anyhoo, I’m a janitor, I guess. Wantin’ to get into animation someday, but that may be a passing fad. Always was good with the fine, delicate stuff-needlework, drawin’, whittlin’.”  
  
“Heh. Believe me, I got a degree in liberal arts to become an author-only to discover I didn’t have a scrap of talent.” Dad sat down, smiling nostalgically.  
  
“I see where you’re comin’ from, partner.” Jimmy himself looked wistful for a bit. “Art’s the world’s most pretty predator. Eat you out of house and home, and if you’re lucky, shit you into fame.”  
  
Huh. Jimmy sounded... _tired,_ when he said that. Maybe he got screwed over by DeviantART? I made a mental note to politely ask him later.  
  
Dad blinked. “...Can we not use that language around my daughter, please?”  
  
“Right, right.” Jimmy shook himself. “My bad, my family is known for being the heirs of the last Texas...manure-footers. Turbo-rednecks; we ain’t known for watchin’ our tongues. We’re proud to be crass sons of a lady-dog.”  
  
Though they are known for watching they tongues enough to use the equivalent of “heck” when need be, it seems. Both Dad and I rolled our eyes. “Bad puns aside,” I said, flatly, “Where’s your big sis? Fifionn?” Whose name I desperately hoped I was pronouncing right.  
  
“Here.”  
  
Everyone’s head whipped to face the soft, dulcet tone.  
  
“Although, if you wish to call me Fifi, nothing will stop you.”  
  
A second later, I managed to reset my jaw. Fifionn, to put it simply, was _beautiful._  
  
She also looked very little like her brother, to be honest. Where Jimmy was short-ish, Fifi was statuesque. Where Jimmy was swarthy, Fifi was almost the color of ivory. Where he was thin, she was...not fat, but definitely healthily plump, the kind of girth that may have been actual fat or muscle (in all ways, to my ironing-board envy). While he was a teenager, she had to be in her mid-twenties.  
  
About the only thing they shared was the same chocolate brown eye color, and black hair (I assumed-there was that red-and-white coloring).  
  
Dad recovered first. “Ah...Ms. Lawrence, I presume.”  
  
“Yes. That is me. Pleasant to meet you.” She nodded her head, expressionlessly. “Now then, I suppose we have a lunch conversation?”  
  
She looked expectantly at Jimmy. I began to suspect Fifi was a bit on the odd side.  
  
“Yep! Can’t smell it, but I’ve got the best grub I could-hope ya like gumbo.”

 

* * *

  
After a few bites of the stew, I decided that no, gumbo was overrated. I didn’t particularly like spicy foods of any sort, and from what I could tell, Jimmy apparently thought that the hotter something was, the better quality.  
  
Still, it was nice of him to make it, so I tried to twist my grimace into a smile. Dad seemed to enjoy it a bit more than I did, and Fifi...I couldn’t tell. She had a weird habit of apparently _inspecting_ each spoonful before putting it in her mouth, but given her complete non-reaction upon eating the soup, it was probably just more of her eccentricities.  
  
Speaking of the elder Lawrence, she seemed...professional, I guess. You wouldn’t expect it from someone who colored her hair like that, but she was pretty much all business the instance she realized Dad was someone related to her work.  
  
“I am an agent of business interested, you see. An emissary and agent.” She leaned closer in, crossing her hands in front of her face. “May I be introduced to some of your peers in the union? I wish to develop a working pledge with your fellows.”  
  
Dad somehow managed to avoid cocking an eyebrow at the lurid prose. “...That can’t hurt. Don’t see why our corporate masters would be interested in a union, though.”  
  
“I don’t see why being on good terms with the source of your power is a poor idea,” Fifi replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.  
  
Dad _did_ raise an eyebrow there. “...Okay,” he said, finally. “Interesting way to put it.”  
  
“Ya get used to it” Jimmy suddenly said. “My sis-she was in plays ever since she was a filly in kindergarten. She learned all her words from Shakespeare. So I reckon, she thinks as life as a little bit more like one big stage, and speaks as such. Be glad it’s not in...iambic something? Ah hell, I can never remember.”  
  
“Iambic pentameter,” Fifi replied, maybe chillier than her normal stoicism. It was hard to tell.  
  
“Right. That, ya know, de- _dum_ de _-dum_ thing.” He shrugged. “As it is, the world grows lavender in her presence.”  
  
I gave a half-chuckle, awkwardly glancing at the amateur actor in question, who didn’t seem to be reacting. Though now that I thought about it-she didn’t seem that happy to be here to begin with. I don’t think I ever saw her smile. I’m not sure if she was _frowning,_ either, but she definitely was keeping her lips pursed and set in a straight line. Almost...focused?  
  
Though, I realized with some humor, I guess this did explain why she was an ambassador for business interests and not in Hollywood. Who knows, maybe she was just terrible at improv.  
  
A few more carefully examined sips of gumbo later, Fifi looked up again. “My employers are particularly interested in any...unique interests. Sculpting, for one. And certain types of chemistry.”  
  
It took me a second for me to realize the sudden coughing and sputtering was Dad.  
  
A second of choking on the gumbo and politely wiping it off his shirt later, he forced one of the most dishonest smiles I had ever seen. “S-sorry? I don’t see how that...applies?”  
  
“Oh, nothing that interests myself. Just something I was informed of by associates of my employers. They are apprehensive of...ill effect on the world. An induced and slight...imbalance towards melancholer, I suppose is the most fitting of terms.”  
  
Dad’s expression became utterly unreadable. “Are they, now.”  
  
“It is merely what I have been regaled of.” Her lips finally moved, twitching upwards in a polite smile. “It is, shall we say, a topic of mutual concern among the hidden set. Ignorance is not welcome among neighbors of any kind-no matter how distant. Nobody wishes to discover our gardens have been trampled on, is all.”  
  
Dad nodded, rigidly. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you.”  
  
The rest of the meal didn’t pass in silence-Jimmy and I talked a lot. But it was still awkward, as neither Dad nor Fifi said another word. Just watched.

 

* * *

  
“Well, that was...something.”  
  
I really didn’t want to say “a disaster”, and make an even more negative impression on my father. I quietly cursed Fifi and her weird behaviors. Especially that last sentence-almost seemed like an outright veiled threat.  
  
“Yes. Something.” Dad, for his part, seemed entirely lost in his own thoughts. “...But _what_ …”  
  
It continued on like this the entire walk home. I would try to open up the conversation (“So, Dad, did you tolerate the hot in the gumbo?”), he would briefly acknowledge it, and then return to talking to himself (“Oh, er, it was okay..maybe its heat? But it’s not really…”) Eventually I just quit trying, until we reached our house, and Dad came out of his shell.  
  
To utter the last sequence of words I ever wanted to hear.  
  
“Taylor. I’m not sure if you should see the Lawrences any more.”  
  
Screw you, Fifi. “Sorry?”  
  
“Like what I said; I don’t think they’re trustworthy.” Dad looked more _uncertain_ than he had in awhile. “They’re...off.”  
  
“...Well, a little _eccentric,_ to be certain,” I began, desperately. “But I’m sure they’re just a little odd, you know, like me-”  
  
“I mean they don’t seem like siblings. Even adopted ones.”  
  
I blinked. “Sorry, how?”  
  
Dad rose an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice their accents? They sound nothing like each other.”  
  
I worked my mouth, trying to figure out a response to something I really _didn’t_ notice. “...Well, it could be that they just lived apart for a while. Their father was an army guy, maybe one stayed home and the other-”  
  
“And that whole ‘learned words from Shakespeare’ thing. Doesn’t that sound a bit... _unlikely?_ ” He shook his head. “Point is, there’s something very strange about them. Something sinister. Just...be safe, okay?”  
  
And with that, he slipped into the study.  
  
I, on the other hand, proceeded to flop on the couch and start to process this new information.  
  
Part of me wanted to lash out, tell Dad this was exactly what he was so miserable after my mother died in that crash. In truth, I suspect I would have gone into that if he hadn’t left when he did (and it was probably for the best that it didn’t happen that way). But the more I thought about it, the more it _made sense._ There was something very _off_ about Fifi, from her full name to her manner of speech. Almost...otherworldly, I guess? Like she didn’t belong in this world, and knew it.  
  
Hell, as far as I knew, she may have _been_ from another world. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more sense it made; maybe Fifi was an esohuman, maybe even the “penanggal” or someone closely related to her that Jimmy talked about.  
  
Which would be awesome, but that still didn’t go into her manner of speech. Or what would be her core motive if (and more likely) she really wasn’t one of the shadow people, and Jimmy’s own motives in all of this.  
  
It was in the middle of puzzling this out that I got a text from Jimmy: _Well, that didn’t go over well at all. Just between you and me; my sister isn’t someone you invite to first meetings._  
  
Suppressing a bitter laugh, I typed out my own brutal honesty. _You don’t say.  
  
Yeah. I think we creeped out your dad._ A pause, and then he typed out something else. _Say, I feel real shit about that, so you wanna see something cool I found? I think MPO would love it._  
  
On the one hand, Dad was right. “Something cool” was not something that was comforting in its lack of specificity. It would be safer to just text a negative and avoid James Lawrence from then on.  
  
There would be no long-term consequences from that if I was wrong, and he really _did_ just want to be a friend. Well, unless you counted ruining the only friendship I had in over a year. Upsetting his sister. Possibly pissing him off so much he would join Emma in her bullying campaign.  
  
…  
  
_Really? Tell me where to meet you, and when. I’ll be right over, soon as Dad’s not paying attention._

 

* * *

  
If nothing else, the supernatural had a sense of decorum. I couldn’t imagine a more fitting place than the storage unit for some kind of “ghost.”  
  
The warehouse seemed to be deliberately designed to come off as eerie and...melancholic, almost. Looming, I guess would be the right word. Then again, it could be just the early night plus fog. We had a tendency towards rather thick fog in Brockton Bay, and the warehouse had been built _up_ rather than _out,_ leaving it rather tall.  
  
...Though normally the really thick fogs only happened in the spring. Huh.  
  
In any case, I waited around. Well, okay, I didn’t wait alone; I had brought an energy reader off of Skeptical_Jacobin a while back, when I was investigating my own ghost. I didn’t have the money for a Kirlian camera (and I doubted it would work that well anyway-Brockton Bay was so naturally damp that the coronal discharge off thin air could just be a pocket of mundane moisture rather than a wandering ghost chilling the air enough to form condensation), but he swore this one was good enough when looking for ectoplasm, that strange matter formed and responsive to psychic power. Especially the kind ghosts, thoughts so powerful they became self-reinforcing, came from.  
  
At some point, you realized what counted as pseudo-science was a subjective measure.  
  
Anyway, I knew the thing worked. It was how I placed eighth in the ghost-hunting contest (though to this day I suspected that only ranks 12 and up were not actually faking it or completely out of their gourd), Mostly because I disturbed an entire nest of ghosts, who thankfully were in a rather friendly mood. I only didn’t sleep for the next two nights, and my newfound trypophobia didn’t actually last that long. Lovely footage, though, and everyone realized a twelve-year-old girl couldn’t fake those phantasms. And seeing as how Jimmy said there were ghosts anyway, I started exploring the perimeter.  
  
I didn’t notice the other guest until she spoke up.  
  
“Is there any specific reason you are waving a cell phone over a pier of concrete?”  
  
I dropped the “cell phone” at the dulcet tone. How the hell had Fifi gotten directly behind me?  
  
After scrambling for the energy reader, a new question presented itself-which I had to internally revise a couple times to scrub it of my annoyance towards her.  
  
“...Hi Fifi. Why are you here?”  
  
“Attempting to complete my brother’s plan to smoothe over whatever troubled waters I appear to have stirred.” The bottle-redhead shrugged, her hair swishing in the air. “He thought that doing so in this place was good as any.”  
  
“Oh.” I sincerely hoped Jimmy hadn’t dragged me out here just to get me to make peace with his sister. Even if I respected that motive enough to forgive him.”Are there actual ghosts?”  
  
“This is indeed a site of the paranormal.”  
  
“Ok. Great.” Phew.  
  
There was a bit of an awkward pause.  
  
“..I am supposing that I did not leave you with the most sterling of impressions? Please, do be honest.”  
  
“...No,” I admitted, returning to fiddling around with the reader. “You really creeped out my father.”  
  
“Hm. I have grown to be expectant of that.” Fifi shrugged. “It is how I was made, I suppose. I don’t really fit, and everyone here I meet senses it.”  
  
And now I felt rather bad. I put the energy reader down and turned to face the elder Lawrence-  
  
“If you are offering sympathy, rest assured. I need none, and it is counterproductive. I’ve learned to accept this as the way things are; My nature is to frighten people. It is simply the order of things.”  
  
There was no emotion in this. Completely matter-of-fact.as if she were describing the weather.  
  
I began to wonder if she was guilting me. It certainly seemed to be working.  
  
A few more minutes of waving the reader around and trying to avoid conversation, she cleared her throat. “You are a creature of remarkable self-command, do you know?”  
  
I blinked. “Sorry?”  
  
“You hate those three girls utterly, do you not? You have every reason to plot out killing them. Yet you do not. Would there be a reason for that?”  
  
...I decided to not question why Fifi knew that. “...Not anything selfless. I just want to prove that I’m a better person than any of those, no offense, bitches.”  
  
She cocked her head again. “And hurting them in any form would make you just as bad?”  
  
“Maybe. Maybe not.” I thought. “Probably not,” I admitted. “But I never liked revenge as a concept; it always struck me as a drug. You try it once, you get high on victory, but it leaves you hungry for more. Eventually it just consumes everything.” I looked down. “I can’t be a good person and pursue revenge. I don’t trust that I won’t become some kind of madwoman who regards every slight as a killing offense, and I’ve fully replaced Emma.”  
  
She nodded. “That is very wise. Empathetic and self-aware.” She pulled out a notepad and wrote something down. “Forgive me if I offend, but I assume you also remember your old friendship with the previously mentioned Emma? You think there is something that can be salvaged?”  
  
I had half a mind to tell her to mind her own business, but suddenly I felt a wave of tension-I _needed_ to get this off my chest. “No offense; there is _nothing_ left. There is no sane reason I want to rebuild my friendship with her-do I _want_ to? Yes. Would it be _healthy_? No; there’s too much bad blood for the both of us. At most, we can not be enemies; after this term, I just want to leave the painful memories behind.”  
  
She cocked her head again as she leaned back, letting her hair droop closer to her neck. “And no other reason?”  
  
“No,” I admitted, feeling unusually honest today. Freakishly honest-apparently I was a little more stressed than even I thought. “I hate her and I want to hurt her, but not kill her; I want closure more than anything, and keeping on with her would just be keeping a wound open. I just want to be done with it.”  
  
The hair drooped a little more. “...So that is why the Naughts were complaining of poor yield.”  
  
Now it was my turn to cock my head. “Huh?”  
  
“Not my concern. Their wineries are their own troubles, even if I hired them.”  
  
And suddenly, Fifi _lunged_.  
  
I became vaguely of a painful scratch on my cheek as the woman drew back, revealing a glinting blade on a ring. “But your father is part of my lord’s own. And he requests of me an eye to watch over him. Your only fault is that you were the closest to him.”  
  
I numbly reached for the wound, running my fingers over blood and skin and leaf-  
  
Leaf?  
  
Impossibly quick, _something_ green sprouted out of my cheek, gradually forming a stem, a bud, and then finally bloomed into a bright red flower with a sweet scent-one that instantly calmed me down, despite everything in me screaming to run, and not stop running. And then went further into making me feel outright tired.  
  
_It’s a poppy_ , my increasingly bleary mind recognized. _A tranquilizer poppy, meant to subdue me_.  
  
As the parasitic flower’s smell took me, Fifi’s form shimmered, losing cohesion and becoming almost liquid. All of her form, with one exception-her hair.  
  
Which was not to say they remained unchanged. Rather they grew longer.  
  
And lower.  
  
And thicker.  
  
By the time Fifi’s form had stabilized, in the place of her hair was nine swishing foxtails, sticking out of a white dress that was just as much a robe.  
  
A still-beautiful woman with slitted pupils and black claws for fingernails cradled me, gently stroking my face. “ _For what it is worth, I am not at fault here. I hunt; that is all I can do. I promise your shadow will be beautiful-and I hope that you break free of the Keeper. You are noble prey.”_  
  
She thought for a second. “ _But don’t seek out Jimmy; his face is not even his Mask. You deserve better companions._ ”  
  
And darkness took me. Cold, numbing, empty.  
  
In the coming months,, I would come to pray that darkness came back.

 

* * *

**  
**Mini-Interlude: The Grimhound of the Wild Hunt** **

  
_Of course the bar is shit,_ Ol’ Shuck thought to himself. _The plan had to go wrong_ somewhere. _Can’t damn well enjoy a plan comin’ together with good beer, huh?_  
  
Still, it was hard to ruin his mood. Shuck had faced infinitely worse food and drink, even before his “little trip.” So, suffering booze that he suspected had been drunk before wasn’t hardly the worst killjoy in the world. And really, he couldn’t complain about the food, given the pretzels were probably the best he had tasted in months.  
  
While the latest batch was busy detoxifying his mouth, he rechecked the time on the bar’s television. Twelve after. Either his contact had some problems with delivery or maybe the mark was stronger than they thought.  
  
“You have a very interesting definition of moral boundaries. Not wrong, but interesting in them.”  
  
Delivery troubles it was, then. “All went smoothly, I reckon?” He didn’t need to check; his contact was a shapeshifter, but her voice didn’t change if she could manage it.  
  
“The Naughts, almost and most to their convenience, forgot their rules of propriety. They wished to harvest her again now that her mind was fertilized with my own soil and soul. But they are not agents of the royal, and all has worked as well as it could be.”  
  
Shuck looked up. Fifionne had dispensed with her old body and now was walking as a man-a very familiar man, Shuck realized with some dark humor. The only difference is that he didn’t see him wearing a stylish red jacket with nine flame designs. “Ain’t it a bit on the nose to copy him, ya old fox?”  
  
Fifi’s lip twitched before her composure returned. “I have no more need of that face. This one is not a strong form, but he is limber from years of work and he may access employee files with a request. It will be a much lesser task to find my target should you fail.”  
  
“Then ya wasted your mojo, Fi.” Shuck leaned back, smirking. “This is the Black Dog you’re talkin’ of. Best damn privateer since Liz Malloy, and I ain’t half as untrustworthy. Probably better when it comes to being a damn Lost too-I don’t think she ever even _touched_ a dream, let alone come up with an entire set of fake memories.”  
  
“Using your real name.”  
  
“Hey partner, Scissor-Man’s a miracle-worker, but he ain’t no god. Not yet.” Shuck cracked a grin. “The more teenage me resembled me, the less horse shit he needed to mortar those memories with. Had to rent artistic talent from the goblins even then.”  
  
“I see.” Fifi sat down, looking nonplussed. “But I have grown even more fatigued of this plane than when I am rudely ripped out of my home’s bosom into unclean form. My main mission?”  
  
“Ah!” Shuck held up a weather-beaten finger. Behind the illusion of humanity, his green eyes increased in their demonic glow. “I helped ya get back to seekin’ your old target, and now because it’s your highest priority, you can get back to hunting. Y’all promised me that was one service worthy of the blood price-and I reckon you’re rollin’ in Yearning given how I’ve been helpin’ you in Lung’s territory. How many Approaches have I tripped?”  
  
Fifi winced. “I had earnestly forgotten. And you are right-I have indeed acquired much from the charter of the Northern Court. So as you wish…”  
  
Fifi reached into her form’s jacket, and furrowed her brow. The sound of a hunting horn softly echoed in the distance along with the barks of canines, dogs and otherwise. As the noise died down, the _kumiho_ withdrew a simple-looking statue of a clay fox, and presented it to her mercenary. Grinning darkly, Shuck placed the Token in his back pocket, already imagining what he could do with it. “All’s well that don’t quite yet end well, I reckon. I’ll get your real target in a week.”  
  
With that, Fifi stalked out of the bar. A quietly disposed-of drink later, Shuck followed suit-but unlike her, he ducked into a back alley, where he could safely extract his Naught’s mask-one losing features as he lived out the identity within, but at this point, he was sick of playing someone a quarter of his real age.  
  
And once the skin of a dead boy settled around him, and he internally made a memo for finding a drunkard to beat up soon, James “Ol’ Shuck” Lawrence, traitor to the Autumn Court, notorious necromancer, and source of over sixty new slaves for the True Fae, set out to perform the last mission his current employer asked.

 

* * *

_And so the princess was taken by a Scheming Nine-Tails as the Grimhound counted his loot, to serve in the court of the Sentinel of the Woodland Vault. In her place was left a Fearsome Shadow so that the king would not notice the deception, and the Nine-Tails, in her unwanted regret, crafted it so well that no one understood it was not the princess.  
_  
But the story of how the princess came back as an Honorable Hag is a skip in the tale, for there is one more princess we must speak of. Though, perhaps, we required a slight diversion, because we no longer pretend this is any happy story of friendship?


	5. Interlude 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we visit more minor characters than our two leads, we meet superheroes and their worthy foes for the first time, and a certain duplicate wastes no time in "improving."

* * *

 

_Hello again, friends._  
  
Before we learn the story of the second princess, we must know of the kingdom, the noble houses and merchants of this little tiny country. And I mean “kingdom” quite literally; just as shadows are always deeper and more numerous than the light which casts them, so to is the darkness in which spectres dwell. Their world never shrunk-or perhaps it did, but it was always so much vaster for them.  
  
Be glad, friends, you live in a tiny world. Small worlds have less cracks where predators can hide.  
  
To the matter at hand; the world of shadows is a world where feudal courts of kings, lords, and the vassals beneath them never died-or never pretended to die, depending on how you see the world. No, the dark contains a world of courts and domains, manors and land grants. But unfortunately, what the dark does not allow is dishonesty. Attempting to support the lie of equality when one’s entire existence is already the lie that monsters do not exist? That is too much to ask of anyone.  
  
_So, first, we put the focus to an old family of magic, and the two latest heirs_ …

 

* * *

  
The man panted heavily as he turned another alley, ignoring the pain as he twisted his ankle on a divot. Behind him, the sounds of animal hollering and rolling thunder got louder and louder. He could almost make out words in the cacophony, proclamations and screams of anger. Perhaps he could hear more, if he wasn’t so focused on pumping adrenaline through himself.  
  
The shouts of thunder got louder and more insistent as he rounded another corner-from the front, he realized. So he kept turning, down a completely different alley-  
  
A flash of white fabric-  
  
The man started screaming as he struggled against something wet, cold, and organic. The shouts of thunder rose to a deafening din as new footsteps, more a casual walk, came up behind him.  
  
“Well, I’ll give you that you’re way faster on your feet than in your thoughts. That’s a low bar to clear, but _still._ ”  
  
The grasping agave leaves shifted, turning the man around as they spun themselves into tight bindings against the wall they had sprouted from. The one wrapped around his ankle secreted something like aloe, soothing the pain while leaving him conveniently slowed.  
  
The shouts subsided, their blond mistress leaning against the other side of the alley. “So. Andrea Young. Ring any bells?”  
  
The man whimpered, more animal than human.  
  
“College student, black, needed sis to have something resembling a face again? Come on, you can’t tell me you haven’t heard of her.”  
  
The man whimpered again, reaching desperately for a crucifix in his front jacket pocket.  
  
The blonde saw it. A quick slash of her finger later, a sudden pull of localized magnetism yanked it out, and onto her outstretched palm. “Ha ha, _no._ No going wolfman on us, wannabe-besides, sis would just add wolfsbane to those leaves before you could trim them.” A complete lie, but the man didn’t know that. “So, I’m going to ask really nicely now: What do you have to do with Andrea?”  
  
The shouts of thunder underlaid her voice, commanding him to cease his blasphemy against Truth immediately. He caved. “Making Empire happy,” he said, unable to still his mouth. “Kaiser is cementing his ties with the Herd.”  
  
“Okay. For what?”  
  
“Hunt,” the man replied, wincing at his traitorous mouth. “He’s grown wroth at the Forsaken continuing to defile our territories with their patricide. He has decided that now is a fine time for declaring a full _Siskur-Dah_ against the Most Impure, and seeing as how most of the Urdaga around here are of lesser human races as well-”  
  
He heard nothing else for the rest of the night, as the lightning strike that nearly grazed his ear finally caused him to faint.  
  
As the red haze pounding Victoria Dallon’s head began to clear, she began to suspect she might have overdone it.  
  
Also, the blood coming out of the wolf-blooded goon’s eardrum didn’t look healthy. Expectantly and sheepishly, she turned to her white-robed adopted sister.  
  
While Amy’s costume was completely face-covering, her eyebrows bounced enough when she was rolling them to make her irritation with her sister’s continuing love of terror tactics obvious. “Fine. That brings us up to what, twelve favors?”  
  
“Thirteen,” the elder sister admitted. “There was that time you helped me tag along with Gallant on that expedition-”  
  
“That should count as two,” Amy interjected. “I had to make nice with the Mysterium.”  
  
“Fourteen,” Victoria corrected, shivering at the thought of smiling at the sneering, self-important mystagogues. “And then there was that time the Minoan Bull got wise to my grappling tactics.” She rubbed her shoulder, and the fading scar the patrolling guardian of Brockton Bay’s local ruined temple-city had left with his immortal horns.  
  
“I seriously don’t know why you don’t just pet him.” Amy absentmindedly performed her oddly religious-seeming _mudra_ spell gestures, so skilled with Life magic that simply performing the memorized exercises was more than enough for the eardrum to start reabsorbing the blood and repairing the damage her sister’s own reckless magic caused. “It’s way easier, and he helps guard you from upsetting the Rmoahals further into the city.”  
  
“I dunno,” Vicky admitted. “Something about that thing just makes me really pissed, you know? And he won’t respond if you pet him with malice, so I don’t bother.” She thought for a second. “Hey, you’re the Thyrsus; anything you know about Shadow mumbo-jumbo that makes you want to crack skulls despite the only skull being made of literal diamond?”  
  
“First of all, it’s called Influence.” It took every ounce of willpower that was in the younger Dallon sister to not roll her eyes. Yes, the spirit world wasn’t exactly an Obrimos’ forte, but _come on._ “The Bull isn’t really a spirit, so he doesn’t have much, but what he does have is a minor capacity to inflame masculine aggression-the Mentians who built him wanted to make sure any man who set foot in their city was their equal in battle, so they made it so that even soft men would fight the Bull, see if they could hold him still.”  
  
“Uh-huh. And the reason he’s able to pull that on a _teenage girl is_ is…?”  
  
_Because,_ Amy thought sourly, _as Mr. Nearly Deaf Skinhead over here proves, you have more than enough aggression to make up for the fact he can’t aim at ladies very well._ “I have no clue, honestly.”  
  
“Eh.” Vicky, known more frequently as Freyja, rubbed her neck. “Anyway, I’m just going to Veil the Prime patterns of this guy’s memory of this event, bog down his actual recollections with meaningless bullshit static.”  
  
Okay, now Amy’s interest was piqued. “Really?”  
  
“Yeah, I mean, Prime as a concept is linked to truth, right? So, I was thinking, if you damage-sorry, _obscure_ -the concept of Prime, you make things _less_ true but not actually destroying the thing...”

 

 

* * *

  
_And so did the Prodigy and the Savior vanish.into the shadows, the Imperious Fang none the wiser._  
  
But this is not their story.  
  
Let us now shift the focus, from the heavens to the earth, from the searing knowledge of magic to the essential pulse of blood and bone.  
  
_To the second, let us put the focus on the nemesis of the Imperious Fang, and a great huntress among them..._

 

 

* * *

  
A long time ago, Hannah had decided Brockton Bay was probably what the Vikings were thinking of when writing of Fimbulvinter. In the basic politics of the city, there was precisely three types of people you could trust-you, the people you blackmailed, and the people who couldn’t find a replacement for you. This was surprisingly more idealistic than it sounded-the last category included people who keep you around because otherwise they would grieve for you. But really, what sealed the analogy was that Brockton Bay was freaking cold in the winter and suffered from the occasional snap year-round, and it was _always_ a wind-age; Brockton Bay could match Chicago in the gale department.  
  
And of course, it was usually a wolf-age too, though that largely depended on how aggressive the Ivory Claws were feeling that day. Right now it wasn’t, but perhaps it would better if the Uratha supremacists were...actually, given who Hannah was, it probably wouldn’t be better. But still, she wasn’t happy about who she was dealing with.  
  
A pair of thickly-set, oddly proportioned Asian men gave a long look at the package, rolling it over in their hands with blank expressions. After a couple flips, both appeared satisfied that there was no hidden surprises-to their frustration, if the sudden shift to annoyed snarls was any indication. “They’re sahfe bhoss.” one called out in an oddly whistling, muted sound. “Nho trhicks.”  
  
Slowly, something in the darkness beyond shifted, something previously unseeable walking back into the world of the visible. Soon, a far more normally proportioned, but just as muscular, man wearing a metal dragon mask was striding towards the package, confidently, forcefully. He was scarred, heavily, but somehow that only brought out his muscle and the fine, almost statuesque build of his arms. He looked at the package before looking, seeming pleased under the mask. “Good. Horse, Ox.”  
  
The two goons didn’t need to be told twice. They reclaimed spots just behind their master, looming protectively.  
  
Hannah recognized the reference. “...The guards of Di Yu. A bit on the nose, don’t you think?”  
  
“It fits. These two are close to being demons as is, and they guard.” A twitch of a smile under his mask. “I certainly didn’t name myself after a constitutional right, Miss Militia.”  
  
_No, just a thunder god,_ she thought. “Anyway. The bargain holds?”  
  
“As you wish. In return for this fetish, I will put a new mission to my own mortal employees. We gangs did form to protect the downtrodden-expanding our aegis for just a tad should be-”  
  
“Why are we working for her again?”  
  
A flash of yellow raced across Hannah’s eyes. Who _was_ that!?  
  
Lung turned silent and very cold. “...Explain, Bakuda.”  
  
She didn’t recognize that name. That was terrible on several levels, not the least of which was the fact that Lung refused to address you by name unless it was to prevent confusion...or he valued you.  
  
“I mean, why are we working for the sell-out?” A new shape materialized, a disheveled woman in a gas mask from behind Hannah’s point of view (a subtle gesture of skill in stealth that the old huntress’ instincts instantly recognized). “I mean sure, we get new specimens for our flea collection-”  
  
“Stohp talkhing.” One of the brutes leaned forward as his fragile Mask slipped, revealing the tusked, ape-like shape of a blunderbore goblin. “Bhoss dhidn’t hinvhite hyou.”  
  
“Yeah, don’t care, I don’t come out of an egg purchased in sets of five” she said, making a dismissive gesture to the surprisingly unoffended brute (it was basic fact), “I do something he needs.”  
  
Lung’s eyes couldn’t be seen behind his mask, but one could _feel_ them narrowing. “There are other bombers.”  
  
“Not _Wizened_ ones though, I think. In any case,” she said as she wheeled to face the other party at the negotiation. “Why are _you_ here? Task Force VALKYRIE run out of treats?”  
  
Hannah was _very glad_ her personal issues did not have a basis in being challenged. “Out of resources and patience, more to the point,” she said, a growl coming to her voice. “Wards need to detoxify a Wound, they and I agreed we needed help.”  
  
“Oh really?” Hannah could see enough of Bakuda’s eyes behind her lenses to know she was widening them in mock shock. “I had no idea! Let me just be on my merry way to that-and possibly the library, to see exactly what bridge I want to buy.”  
  
“Miss Bakuda,” Hannah began, levelly as she could manage. “The Hedge is not the sole intertwined world out there. A Wound is a concept relating to the spirit world-”  
  
“Oh, you’re part of _the spirit world_ , is it? Tell me, meet any friendly, shapeshifting ghosts?” Bakuda turned to Lung, crossing her arms. “Your Highness, are we really going to take the word of a shapeless, bipoloar Bumpus hound and her brood of misfit toys-”  
  
Whatever Bakuda was suggesting in comparison would have to wait, as she was cut off by a series of lupine talons being raked across her back. In an instant, Ox and Horse leapt on the now fanged and long-eared Hannah before she could fully express her displeasure with the arrogant changeling. Normally, this would be followed by them removing said lupine talons as a warning to future violence (not that it would leave lasting marks on a werewolf), but by that point they had come to share her opinion of the noisy, disobedient loudmouth, so the two blunderbores simply held her back while muttering “Eashy, eashy.”  
  
Lung, for his part, strode over to Bakuda and, without a word, grabbed her by the head. “Be glad my reason has felt the stings of fragile Clarity as well, wretch,” Lung began, his voice a reptilian hiss. “Because for the moment, I am taking her word, on the basis she has the slightest clue what is going on. You are not omniscient, woman-college or not.”  
  
With that, he almost gingerly sat his subordinate down, and resumed his negotiation stance like nothing had ever happened. “The spirit in this device is indeed one of grief?”  
  
Slowly, Hannah let herself return to human form. “...yes.”  
  
“Good. The Northern Courts will eat well.” And with that, he took the package and returned to his invisible state, followed quickly by the goblin thugs and Bakuda, though something Korean and likely very offensive could be picked up by Hannah’s hearing as she sulked off after her Magistrate.  
  
The Hunter in Darkness desperately hoped she wasn’t making a mistake.

 

* * *

   
_And so did the Gunslinger Warden enter into a devil’s pact with the Strength in Suffering to protect her charges and brethren._

 

But this is not her story.

_Let us shift focus from the shadows on the cavern wall to the light and its blocking puppet, from the flesh and the spirit to the fae and the spell. You may notice a similar name, friends-to a different character in our little tale._

 

* * *

 

“ _Taylor?_ ”  
  
I very pointedly _did not_ smirk. “Well Madison? How do you like it?”  
  
Madison Clements, childish cuteness made flesh and the bootlicker of the Terrible Trio, sputtered dumbly. “I..I..um, wow, um, I- _when did_ you _get hot!?_ ”  
  
I tapped my glasses, teasingly. “Fun fact: I need prescription eyeglasses, but they don’t need to be _that_ thick. I changed the color of the frames, for one-you know how difficult it is to paint them without smudging the glass?” I shrugged. “But back to the point-I thought about what you said, about how I was, oh, what was it? Ah yes; ‘A virgin, ugly skeleton’. So, over winter break, I thought to myself, well, thin women are the ones who tend to be models, and really, when people say ugly, they really mean ‘not airbrushed.’ So, a little makeup, blush here and there, learning to stand straight, that kind of thing. Then, once I worked out the ugly, I realized that here in the real world, pretty isn’t a set thing, it’s what happens when your personal look kicks everyone else’s in the ass, when people see you and instantly know who you are just by a glance.”  
  
I poked the purple half of my hair. “Sure, I could never go for Emma’s Celtic Redhead. Besides the fact I don’t have time or money for realistic dye, I don’t have the freckles and have too much glasses for that, nor do I want the urge to go throw myself in a fire every time I see my reflection. So, I think, fuck it, I’m at aft end of the pecking order, I’m going to be a delinquent! So, I ruffled my hair a bit, pulled out a strand just a tad so it hides my eye, and since I haven’t saved up enough to buy anything leather yet-thanks for stealing my allowance, by the way-I bought up a pair of blue jeans and an old hoodie, took a pair of scissors to the pants to make them look a bit worn, and rubbed some dirt in the hoodie so that the street follows me wherever I go, to go with my fingerless gloves. Sadly, it wasn’t complete without _some_ recoloration, so yeah, I’m springing for gel now, but nobody cares about how artificial purple looks, it’s _purple._ Really, I think the brightness of this dye gives my hair a nice contrast, wouldn’t you agree?” I struck a pose, more to mock her than anything.  
  
Madison, for her part, had been slowly paling, even taking a step back when I thrust my hand up in the sky. “Um...Yeah. It’s very...you, Taylor. Very grunge _and I mean that in the best possible way!_ ”she finished, almost as a single word.  
  
I rose my eyebrow in mock surprise. “Oh? Is that... _nervousness_ I hear, Maddie? Do I... _scare_ you?”  
  
Oh holy hell, she was actually _tapping her fingertips._ “Er...I wouldn’t say _scare_ , but, um…” She gulped. “..Yes?”  
  
I frowned. “Oh really? Well, Madison, I’m sorry to say that is _exactly what I intended with this, you conniving_ ** _bitch!_** ”  
  
Before she could react, I grabbed her and _threw_ her against a nearby wall, pinning her with my arm so I could really _glare_ at her, directly into those sweet, girlish eyes that happened to belong to a psychopath. “You know how I’m a comic book geek? Fun fact, Madison; do you know what the most common supervillain origin is?” To emphasize my point, I finally let myself smile, probably wider than I thought I ever could.  
  
She gulped, actually tearing up a little. “...R-Revenge?”  
  
“Well, well, well. Looks like the ideal little girl likes _boy_ hobbies. Careful Mads; I hear it’s _threatening_ if females take over male spaces.” I giggled, which had the exact terrifying effect I was hoping for. “But back to my point-yeah, it’s revenge. One bad day, pushed too far, snapped under the strain, finally started to do rather than get done. Guess what _you’ve_ been doing to me, _all year_.”  
  
I swear, if I had a ruler, Madison’s eyes would be proven to engorge by an inch. “Oh god. Oh god.”  
  
“Bracket, quip about my name sufficing, bracket. But seriously, Maddie-actually, I never cleared it with you, can you pretend you gave me permission to nickname you? Thanks-the only reason why I didn’t lash back at you and the two whose butts spend equal time having your nose up them, was because I thought I’d be the better person. Then, you stuffed my locker full of bloody tampons, and I realized that at this point, any revenge I take on you three is justified by my metric, so there’s nothing stopping me from having some _much_ needed catharsis.”  
  
I leaned closer. “So congrats, Mads; you’ve successfully convinced the good girl to go bad, and yuuno? I think bad really suits me! It certainly helps keep my bed clean of paper, now that I’m finally shortening the yard-long list of grudges I keep there.” I finally allowed myself to laugh, a quick laugh.  
  
I suspect Madison hadn’t drunk anything that day, as given her expression, I think she would otherwise have wet herself. “W-What are you gonna do to me?” she squeaked.  
  
“Oh, to _you?_ I’d have brought a knife if that was the case!” _Now_ I let myself smirk. “But here’s a spoiler for my evil scheme, Mads-I’m pinning you right now because I think you’re the morally best of the entire Terrible Trio. Which is to say, you’re a piss-yellow coward hiding behind the popular girls so you won’t be bullied yourself, as opposed to being a treacherous sociopath or just plain soulless.” I leaned closer in. “And since I’m still the better person, I’m going to let you redeem yourself.”  
  
She gulped again, but there was a hopeful look in her eyes (pathetic). “W..what do you want me to do?”  
  
“Well, as mentioned, I’m at the exact bottom of the social hierarchy of Winslow, so I can’t just storm in and conquer my new Kingdom of the Docks. I’d be stung to death by the Queen Bees’ swarm before I got a chance, maybe even expelled-not that it’d be a bad thing to leave Winslow, but I kinda want a passable college transcript and move far away. So, _you,_ my little can of insecticide, are going to help me kill the swarm from the inside out, pay back Sophia and Emma without them realizing poor little Taylor’s finally gone around the bend and come back with a bazooka.”  
  
I leaned in a little more, enough to actually whisper in her ear. “Work with me here, you get to kiss the ass of someone who actually gives a damn if you live or die, if only on moral principle. Tell _anyone,_ especially the Dumbass Duo, and I take you down with me. Protip,” I added, smirking. “You _really_ shouldn’t use the school computers for...personal things. Your password’s too easy to guess, and they don’t reset search history.” Oh, that got her sweating. “But no worries! I deleted it...after I sent it to my own email. Insurance, as we say. So _don’t betray me._ ”  
  
I felt Madison nod frantically in my arm. “Good. And here’s what you’re going to do... _bestie._ ”

 

 

* * *

  
_And now, you know why the king of the docks did not notice his most precious treasure missing-in fact, she seemed more contented than she had in an age._  
  
For in the moment that the first princess was taken we ended up with a new character entirely. A foil, of sorts, to the girl our new person replaced-for it is against the laws of the fae to create a truly perfect replica, only one its maker judges better. A Fearsome Shadow, no longer a step eternally lower on the chain of predator and prey.  
  
But this is not the Fearsome Shadow’s story.  
  
_No, there are only two princesses in this story. Let us now focus on the other, who has far more practical claim-and would find it a happy day if she no longer was part of her dynasty._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, yes Bakuda was acting crazy and reckless. It’s not an uncommon thing among changelings; that Clarity Lung referred to is their version of sanity-the less of it the Lost have, the more delusional they are. Given the fae elements, most tend to start believing they are the only thing that is guaranteed reality at low levels, and when combined with someone as egotistical as Bakuda...


	6. Nocturnal 1.1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lisa, a witch-for-hire (and her for-hire friends) are offered a relatively lucrative contract.

 

_Once upon a time, there was a princess._

_Unlike the princess of the docks, this one had wealth and was heir to a mighty title. Her family was an old and mighty house, one blessed by the vagaries of strength and history-and more than that, were born of an ancient house with all claims to divine right by blood. Their ancestor was, in all ways that mattered, a sea god._

_Sadly, they inherited the infamous arrogance of the gods as well. They were princes and queens, dukes and countesses in the truest sense possible-it was their right to be the masters, and the illness forged in the crucible of mortal flesh and deific gene was taken as a blandishment to simply rule well. So, to those who showed a reluctance to take the throne, or be willing pawns in taking the throne, their traditions showed only contempt. And some, like the crown prince, simply could not live as either predator or chess piece._

_In her grief, the true princess turned to stranger magics than her birth-she wanted no part of this terrible clan that viewed its own son as a mere sword to be mourned for its loss of utility. In time, she found her means of escape-and within it, her true calling. And so she became known as the Shapeless Sciomancer._

_But arrogance is not simply found in hunger for power. Flush with faith, the Sciomancer strode boldly into heathen lands to bring her gospel of sacrifice and harmony-but in her youthful pride, ran afoul of a Grasping Diviner. Now a vassal to a tyrant, the Sciomancer sadly gathered for him new knights, none knowing of the hidden noose around her neck-but she did not escape to be a slave somewhere else._

 

* * *

 

Drip..

 

“ _Quiyahuitl_.”

 

Drip.

 

“ _Tlamictizque_.”

 

Drip.

 

“ _Ihqui tlacoti._ ”

 

With every drop of red, another couple words of the susurrus, airy and almost breathy in its pronunciation, almost as if the echo of the blood drops was the one speaking, a voice of dark times thousands of years past.

 

The chamber was kept dark, to not offend the night-dwelling deity upon which the increasingly red idol was based upon. While the owners of the shrine could not actually construct a stone room for the shrine, the wallpaper was decorated well enough to simulate the temples of the culture that had once called upon the ancient one for protection and fertility-and to placate their often vicious lady of the spaces between stars.

 

In the exact center of the room, kept on a raised dais, was a jewelled, jade image of the awful goddess herself, wings outstretched in a swooping pose. Those familiar with lore of relatively recent phenomenon would recognize her as a terrible angel of despair, one witnessed before disaster of a very human type occurred, but…altered. Her face, rather than being a stoic, painfully beautiful woman’s, was a skull with painted pearl eyes, still stoic, still beautiful despite her exposed bone. Two of her upper wings were those of bats, and extending from just above her pelvis was a rattlesnake of black obsidian, eternally flicking a tongue of stone. One that was growing steadily redder.

 

As the chant neared its end, the blood animated, flowing out of the serpent’s tongue in a smooth red stream towards a small fur shawl of black and silver. Slowly, the shawl started to twitch and tense as the blood drew closer. As the chant finished, the blood touched the shawl-and it drank greedily, a slurping sound echoing as the rest of the red was rapidly absorbed. As it did so, the sacrificial wound closed, leaving barely a scar, and the fur turned as shiny and thick as any living animal.

 

* * *

 

There were many things in my life I’d thought would never happen.

 

This wasn’t one of them, but that was a result of failure of imagination on my part.

 

The heavyset woman looked about as comfortable as I did, if not less so. The sheer amount of _awkward_ in the air probably caused an increase in air weight could show up on scientific instruments, if you considered “scientific” as “somewhat more fine-tuned than ‘guy with rock in one hand and weighed item in the other’.”

 

Really, who even _considers_ the possibility that the _local leader of the government-sponsored monster hunters_ ringing you up and now talking out the terms of a contract? Let alone said leader in question. Well, okay that wasn’t quite true; for all the “humanity is the best, rah-rah-rah” cheer of hunters in general, they knew full well of the power disparity between them and we humble shadow folk. Here in the real world, a hunter who hoped to do anything worthwhile was a hypocrite or they were dead. Or complete psychos, but most of _those_ didn’t want to save the world.

 

Major Emily Piggot, for her part, did not look well. I got the sense her generous weight wasn’t due to any overindulgence, but because she was medically prohibited from exercise and couldn’t have the benefit of a healthy diet on the job. Unhealthy foods were usually the cheap, easily consumed kind that didn’t require you to relax. One scant second of eye contact later, I confirmed why this didn’t translate into ‘retirement plan’-I suspected trying to mentally influence her would result in the source of said influence promptly developing a concussion. Pure steel in that glare.

 

Still didn’t mean I couldn’t play a bit of the power game myself. I gave one of my trademarked smiles. “So, ma’am,” I began, faux-cheerfully, “What brings one of the high and mighty down here to the motley collection of rejects?” Informal, falsely-polite; emphasizing the only reason she’s here is that she needs us, and I know it.

 

She got the implication. Her eyes narrowed a bit. “Cut with theatrics, Tattletale. You’re being hired because of convenience, nothing more-having to deal with yet more oh-so-whimsical witches does nothing but remind me of people who I know to be reliable.”

 

Swing and a hit. “And yet you’re asking the Warehouse of Misfit Toys rather than the Arsenal of Freedom to help you. Somehow I suspect that ‘convenience’ doesn’t cover the whole thing. But I digress.” I fell back into a serious face. “Before we get started, can I agree on some terms here? I don’t feel like sticking out my friends’ necks for someone I normally find on the other end of kissing shotguns without _some_ assurance. You know the typical deal?”

 

“We _made_ the typical deal, witch.” Crap, bad call. Intimidation is not offending people. Note to self, Piggot is a bit twitchy when forced into a negotiation she hates. “I would not push my luck with new aspects.”

 

I waved my hands, placatingly. “No offense! I’m fine with no names, no avoidable deaths, no altering the deal. It’s just that, well...” I glanced meaningfully at the busted couch.

 

“Money is not the issue, miss. It’s your competence.” She glanced just as meaningfully at a patch of mildew.

 

“That’s actually a feature,” I said, in complete honesty. “We’re _technically_ a Forsaken pack-”

 

“Funny, so are my actual reliable assets.” She narrowed her eyes even further. ‘Why you have a fungus spirit as a totem-”

 

“Spirit of outcasts,” I corrected. “Rolls-In-The-Ash is a conceptual spirit of scavengers. She likes fungi, as they are an entire domain of scavengers.”

 

“Oh. My apologies.” She sounded genuine there. I sensed something of a kindred spirit when it came to knowledge about the Shadow. “But _technically_ doesn’t cut it with me. There are five of you, and I know for a fact only two are actually werewolves. So to be blunt, the actual service that comes to mind when people think ‘pack of werewolves’ is something you are not good at.”

 

In another world, this would be intimidating.

 

In this world, I tried to avoid cracking a grin as I my next question. “And yet, you’re still hiring us.” Hook.

 

“I am _considering_ hiring you.” Line… “I am considering not, if all I get is some know-it-all teenager with a god complex sniping at me and the honor of Task Force VALKYRIE.” Sinker.

 

I did my best to look offended. “Miss, even if you didn’t have one of the best goetists in the city or a goblin trainer here, let alone both at once, this ‘know-it-all teenager’ is competent enough to act smug.”

 

Piggot had very nearly closed her eyes. “Prove it.”

 

And now for the sales pitch. “Your full name and title is Major Emily Schofield Piggot,” I began. “You tie for the youngest of three siblings, as you are a fraternal twin. Your parents met in the Navy. Dad was a tech engineer, mom was a professional musician who played at his favorite bar on shore leave. None of the three of you had any interest in the support side of the armed forces; big sis was always too fond of her guns to consider not signing up; your brother is an avowed pacifist, albeit one with limits. You followed your sister into the military, but while she became a pilot, you joined the army.”

 

“You’ve proven you can use the internet,” Piggot replied, eyebrow raised. “My brother is also an avid blogger, and I’ll wager he puts his life story on there.”

 

I smirked. “You were disciplined once for breaking a fellow cadet’s hand, but your peers covered for you and made it a ‘training accident’, as he was playing grab-ass and actual sexual harassment would have ruined your career under Don’t Ask Don’t Tell, as your superiors wouldn’t realize you aren’t attracted to anyone, same gender or no.”

 

Piggot’s jaw clenched even as her eyes widened.

 

“When you were promoted to First Lieutenant, you had an encounter with an extra-normal entity, to use the official term, that the Cambodians in the village you were assigned to protect called the Son of Garuda, a giant hawk that regularly attacked you and the natives with powerful storms. You figured out it was protecting a shrine to Vishnu that a local had accidentally damaged and drew it out by drawing easily removable graffiti on it; after knocking it out, you used the time it spent unconscious to repair the shrine without its misguided interference, which meant that, when Task Force: VALKYRIE followed typical procedure and transferred you over to them, you were promoted for your actions resulting in minimal loss of life and opening a quote, friendly line of dialogue with a non-malicious ENE, unquote. From there, you were on the shortlist for the Paranormal Relations Team, despite your professed dislike of dealing with them and loudly protesting being put on what you colloquially described as the ‘nice-nice squad’ to a friend.” I left out _why_ she disliked being on the PRT, as I didn’t want to sour my sales pitch by triggering possible PTSD _at best._

 

My little spiel had the desired effect. The look on her face was a national treasure.

 

After a couple seconds, she quickly resumed her normal glare. “You’re still a smartass.”

 

“Ah, but the first syllable in that is _smart,_ isn’t it? So, let’s just skip to the end and just tell me what it is you came to the Undersiders for, without informing your superiors of precisely the context for that authorization?”

 

* * *

 

“Unexplained disappearances? That’s it?” Brian Laborn, one of two actual werewolves in our werewolf pack and formal leader (I _refused_ to use the term “alpha”), looked about as skeptical as could be expected that the local leader of VALKYRIE had come down on high to get us to do what any private detective worth his salt could.

 

“Yeah. I would be skeptical too, if I didn’t know the in-house team already tried.” I smirked. “As it is, your prophetess has looked into the depths of the ether, and beheld the truth; she’s out of ideas.”

 

“Seriously?” Alec, our security expert and the one deserving the title of “witch” more than me, looked at me in disbelief. This was one of three actual emotive expressions he seemed to be capable of (the others being concentration and ‘trollface’), though to be fair he tried his best with the others. “The leader of the literal MIB in the area, part of the team that was _made_ to find the proper ass to kiss for all your paranormal needs, can’t find anything else?”

 

“She would, if she had the resources,” I said, my trademark smile still in place. “As it is, VALKYRIE hasn’t made friends of esohumanity, beyond the Protectorate. Everyone who matters in the Directional Courts hates them, the Ivory Claws aren’t happy with the E88 remaining thoroughly stuck on the FBI’s hate group’s list, the Merchants are...the Merchants, and-”

 

I nearly shrieked when I felt the tap on my shoulder, before my emotions resolved into annoyance. “Hello, Aisha.”

 

Aisha Laborn, the other actual werewolf, span me around. “Er, aren’t the Merchants vampires? I know the Directionals are the local changelings, and the Ivory Claws are part of the asshole werewolves, but what’s the political deal with the bloodsuckers?”

 

“They’re leftovers,” I stated, bluntly. “Skidmark and his brood are the only known vampires in Brockton Bay left, because to the Protectorate, they’re not worth the effort. All he has left are his team and his ghouls, and he didn’t have much to begin with.”

 

The newly-Changed werewolf tilted her head. “‘Ghoul?’ I’m going to take a wild guess and assume that’s not a corpse-eating corpse.”

 

“Nope, though a desperate one might eat the ashes of a dead vamp.” I leaned back, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice at the barrage of questions. “Vampire blood contains, er, the essence of their immortality, and a mortal fed it becomes eternally frozen at the age they started taking it, until the feed cuts out. It’s also hyper-addictive, so the vampire gets a superpowered servant out of the deal that can walk around in the day and most true esohumans won’t notice.”

 

I suddenly had a horrific realization of what adjective I used.

 

“True esohuman? What, there’s such a thing as a pretend werewolf?”

 

Oi. I smiled a little too brightly and continued. “Yes, but they’re generally other esohumans. Generally, ‘Esohuman’ is a specific term for a supernatural creature who has its own culture with others of their kind, and can imitate mortals for a long period of time, _while_ being substantially different from the normal psychology of _Homo sapiens_. Since ghouls are incapable of existing on their own without vampires, as otherwise they’ll detox and turn into normal humans, they don’t count. It’s also why hunters with my caliber of magic avoid the term, as we aren’t that changed mentally.”

 

I glanced at Alec. “Even if Regent over there wasn’t...a little muted, emotionally, he’d still be the person who can look into your brain with a glance, and whose sanity pivots on the fact that he’s obsessed with gaining more magical knowledge, and thus can shut off his sixth through ninth senses by focusing on one stream of data at a time.” Which wasn’t technically true, but if I tried to explain the Abyss we’d be here all day and Aisha would need migrane medication. “And mages are the _least_ changed, mentally, by going strange.”

 

Comprehension dawned. “You’re talking about Uratha instincts.”

 

  
_“Urum Da Takus_ and all, right? Werewolves can’t avoid being predators lest their spirit sides wither and die, leaving only Rage.” I winced. “Remember your First Change? If you weren’t hunting, that would be a monthly occurrence, except worse.”

 

“‘The Wolf Must Hunt’,” Aisha repeated, nodding. “I see where you’re going with this.”

 

Then befuddlement. “Wait, isn’t that First Tongue? I thought you said spirits don’t like it if a human speaks their language, comes off as imperialistic and rude.”

 

“I’m not a mage, Aisha. I’m just related to them, and given my ‘special abilities’, the spirits don’t mind a human knowing a bit of First Tongue, if I use the proper dialect.”

 

“‘Proper dialect’? Is there like, a funny accent you have to do, like some kind of Southern drawl except more ‘monkey’ and less-”

 

Thankfully, Brian stepped in. “Sis, can we hear about the job, first? ”

 

“Right. Sorry, newbie asking stupid questions…” Aisha retreated back into her patch of shadows.

 

“Okay,” I turned back. “As I was saying, Merchants are right out, and the mages like Armsmaster about as much as we do. It was us or Faultline, and she’s more expensive than what the military budget offers for PMCs.”

 

“So...we’re discount mercs.” Alec raised an eyebrow. “Do we have a hire one team, get one freelancer free deal going on? Because I’d really like someone who can actually wield a gun.”

 

“Nope. An entire team _is_ the wholesale value.” Aisha said from her corner. “At least we aren’t _used_ cheap muscle.”

 

“Anyway,” I continued. “We’re basically being asked to be changeling hunters. Some big shot in the Eastern Court vanished, and seeing as how Lung is always looking to add a bit to the North from his erstwhile peers, we’ve been asked to find him, or at least what caused him to vanish-ideally something that turns Lung off expanding his territory.” I brought out my cell phone and flipped to a picture of a certain bus and attendant trucks. “Unfortunately, and this is really why VALKYRIE or the Protectorate can’t do sweeps themselves, Benediah Clover’s back in town and holding a sermon nearby. If our trusty televangelist mage found out, he’d be all too happy to provoke a publicity-generating scandal about them big bad government menacing his here free speech; the former publicly, the latter with the mages. Either way, he becomes even more of a thorn in VALKYRIE’s side.”

 

“And we’re the deniable asset,” Brian finished, nodding. “So, what’s the payment?”

 

“Money, obviously. Three thousand, half of which is paid up front. Should finally be able to fix that roof and television, now.” Alec opened his mouth to object, but I rose a finger. “Again, discount mercs. But then Piggot threw in something else.” I flipped the image to a new one. “Recognize this?”

 

Brian’s eyes shot open, and Alec leaned in. “Is that…?”

 

“Yep. It’s a Musul Akade egg. Piggot realized we desperately needed a guard other than the voices in Alec’s head, and she knows we live right on top of an entrance to Mentis so it should be right at home. We get a new, and subtle, guard dog that we can use as a spy as well, and we can finally repair our home. Seems like a good deal to me.”

 

“If we can ever figure out how to train it,” Aisha piped up. “Rachel’s good, but I don’t think a sentient swarm of bugs from before time is her thing.”

 

Doesn’t know what a ghoul is but can describe a spirit that is normally only found in pocket dimensions. Should have seen that one coming. “Immaterial mind that possesses a bunch of insects at once, actually. And most of her hobgoblins aren’t capable of speaking,” I replied, more confident than I felt. “A Musul Akade isn’t that different from a guard dog, and they’re usually just as loyal to people who treat them right.”

 

“And if we pull this off, VALKYRIE will be eager to pay us in the future,” Brian finished. “I think we’ve already accepted so I’ll pry Rachel out of her den. Also; Lisa? I think you had a rite of gratitude to attend to?”

 

I winced as I rubbed my chest, feeling the scar. “Right on top of it.”

 

* * *

 

Once upon a time, I was scared of fire. Something about flames looked alive to me, writhing and dancing with no goal but to consume and reduce. Later I was told this was, of course, ridiculous; my family _controlled_ flame if you trained your blood right, we knew most of all how fundamentally mindless fire was; to us, it was more like a limb in search of a wielder than anything. The fact I was fire-adverse was one of the many reasons I was not the family scion.

 

These days, I think my younger self was onto something.

 

Fire itself was mindless, of course, and completely bound by its nature-but from the moment I came into my real self, I realized that “mind” and “will” were not the same thing. Just because, say, a tree did not think did not mean it did not fight to survive at all costs, every cell of its plant existence based around maximizing its chances of growth and reproduction. Plants strategize-they grow in ways that react to the all-important sun, and they conspire with symbiotic fungi and bacteria to make their roots ever more efficient. A particular species of mushroom, _Laccaria bicolor,_ even turns its patron tree into a predator-it colonizes the innards of unsuspecting insects that eat it and digests it from the inside out, releasing nitrogen that is useless to the fungus but what its tree devours greedily. In return, the mushroom shares in the tree’s own nutrients and may grow within its roots.

 

Inanimate things did not have as apparent a will, of course, but I suspected that’s because I didn’t know where, or bother, to look. Fire not the least of it, with its capacity to make more of itself with simple heat, to hide in the ash for new sources of fuel, camouflaged among the black as tiny little embers of red just itching for something dry. And in a stroke of genius, it became useful to humans; the story of humanity was the story of fire’s ultimate triumph, to find a way to become indispensable to an entire species that knew how to make more of it with nothing but twigs and friction.

 

Yes, this was ridiculous. Me, ascribing motives to a chemical reaction? My tween self would laugh in my face, and quite rightly. But that was a long time ago-a long time before I actually called forth a spirit of the Shadow, born of the will-the _Essence_ -inherent in all things; plants, fire, rocks, machines, animals, even emotional states. I knew better now. And it was really amazing I felt safe enough to get out of bed in the morning.

 

At the most basic level, spirits were a lot like fire. Much as fire had no will except to feed itself, spirits had no true desires other than to feed on Essence that was like their own personal natures. The difference though, was that spirits also had minds. Auxiliary minds, it should be noted; all other things being equal, a spirit could let go of its sentience and be none the worse for its core purpose of eating, if the spirit didn’t mind being a grazer. But all things weren’t equal; in the Shadow, everything and anything was made of Essence, and all spirits can eat any Essence. It wasn’t _safe_ to do that (some Essence is toxic to a particular species of spirit, or worse), but seeing as how any great store of Essence left to its own devices would pool into a spirit that immediately would set about competing for stores of the inanimate type of Essence, it was simply easier, and safer, to be a predator. Combine that with the fact that all spirits are also prey for the above reasons, and one had a recipe for an occult ecology where every living thing could strike up a conversation (however limited) with you. But a spirit’s mind was more like a wolf’s claw than a human’s brain; it was an adaptation to make its life easier, not the capacity for choice. Spirits, from the lowliest beetle-spirit to the embodiments of national governments, all had two goals; to eat, and to not be eaten in return.

 

Anyone who thought that made them stupid was likely going to be third on the menu, with items one and two involving them being the unwilling waiter. Spirits were _focused,_ and that determination usually meant that they were damned smart, often outright brilliant. A long time ago, they realized humans, that weird ape that seemed to never have a spiritual representative of the species itself, had the ability to direct their own will at things-in effect, to generate all flavors and types of Essence with the proper beliefs, actions, and especially rituals. The more social spirits (because even in a world where everyone could eat everyone else, it makes more sense to pool resources), realized that working together with humans would lead to a more sustainable flow of Essence.

 

Hence shamans. Therefore, why I was sitting in a dark room, burning sweet herbs while I was chanting appeasements in a dead language.

 

Thankfully, my sentient idealized embodiment of carrion-eaters of a co-worker was never too far away. Rolls-In-The-Ash, like most Forsaken pack totems, didn’t stray far from our home for her own safety; the sane werewolves instinctively served as what was effectively police for the spirit world, and nobody liked a snitch (even if neither of ours really cared about the Shadow itself all that much-we kept our eyes firmly on more human-ish enemies). Soon, the smoke started to collate into the impression of long black feathers, a canid snout, and interwoven mycelium filaments for limbs, with embers dancing in a specific place to give the impression of eyes.

 

“ _Thal kal bu, Asgar-_ Lisa _._ ” The impression of eyes bounced as Ash’s simulacra nodded.

 

“ _Duaf nu habalthu, kal nu habalthu_ , Ash,” I replied. To any other spirit that would be an implied threat, but to a peaceful scavenger, it was an affirmation of friendliness (‘I won’t start any trouble you won’t’). “Can I speak in English, though? As far as I know, my shawl’s still revitalizing, and I really don’t want to disrupt the ceremony with a First Tongue phrase book.”

 

“If I speak brief-being,” Ash replied, shrugging. “On human languages, learning-now I am.”

 

Yes, First Tongue had a pretty weird grammatical structure. I heard it was literally impossible to learn without supernatural influence, more than once. I thought that was something of an exaggeration (the phrasebook I mentioned actually existed), but given the fractal amount of situational dialects (based on location, type of entity speaking, type of entity being spoken _to,_ relative level of own power, friendliness and/or hostility, whether you were in your territory, and so on and so forth), it wasn’t much of one (hell, the only reason _I_ could speak in First Tongue was my shawl, and even then I usually needed to be wearing it in order to be at all fluent). “Okay then. Good.”

 

I bowed, taking out my ritual knife. “Noble spirit, I come before thee as friend and servant. You have guided me well, and I offer thee and thy kindred the drink of gods, sacrifice for sacrifice.”

 

With that, I spun the obsidian athame around, slicing open my scar in a single fluid motion and staining the knife red. Wincing as I held the cut shut, I held the blade into the flames, turning it black again with preternatural speed as Ash growled happily-just as the wound I made closed. It was like the scar had never opened at all-though given how I had abused it recently, I did feel a little woozy.

 

“The _umia_ pleased Essence-gift with,” she replied after drinking of the blood. “Humble us-be at kin-drink of sun-tenders.” The embers blinked. “Say right-that? Enough?”

 

“Yeah, that works.” If only because I knew enough First Tongue to get a rough idea of what she was trying to say. Still, that was miles better than most spirits, some of whom didn’t realize the sounds the apes made was a form of communication as complex as their own. “Bet Nibbles-On-Bulwarks will like that.”

 

“Yes. Dock-Essence bad-flow, spirits all. Hungry, running, starving not need.”

 

Wait, hold on. “Spirits _all?_ Wait, are you trying to say that _all_ spirits are having trouble?”

 

“ _Asgar_ -Lisa no idea has. Harvest bad-bad, loci living but dry. Hungry-all, dream-spirits except.” She paused for a second, shaking her head. “Ed. Excepted.”

 

Huh. I’d have to look into that. Or kick it up the chain to someone who had a vested interest in the Docks. “Ah. That’s nice to know. Well, hope that blood feeds the brood well.”

 

“Thought-recall,” Ash replied, looking meaningfully in the direction of my shrine. “ _Asgar_ -Lisa _gathra_ to great spirit. Normal-this. But hear I that spirit human-called…” She paused. I couldn’t see her mouth, but it was clear she was trying to say it.

 

“Simurgh?” I helpfully offered.

 

“Yes-yes, what look for I. Simurgh-spirit Stray-Lost say human-hating. Human you. Why give _gathra_?”

 

“Because one,” I said, pulling out my bat-wing shawl, “She’s the god I call on to charge this thing. For another, her true name is Itzpapaloptl. Aztec goddess of rebirth. You get that concept, don’t you?”

 

She caught on. “Ah. Simurgh-spirit provide scavengers. Kill people, change fate she, leave food for life-new.”

 

“Quite.” I looked at the Mesoamerican lettering on my athame. “Three, her other shamans saved my life.”

 

I didn’t need to explain much more than that. Scavengers got what it meant to be pulled back from death-after all, accepting someone who was spiritually dead inside after...the incident....was a form of recycling dead matter. Such as a fallen scion of the Merovingian line of almost-wizards turned witch-priestess of ancient gods, all claim my extended family made to being Atlantean royalty spat upon and forgotten.

 

Of course, my mentor said that this made me even more blessed in the eyes of the Teotl, the Mexica ( _not Aztec_ ) gods. He said the fact that I (metaphorically) sacrificed my life as much as the other _ichpocatl nahualtin_ did made my devotion to the purity and recompense of the gods clear. It took me weeks to stop glancing at my sweetbread-in-a-snowstorm reflection and wonder if it had more to do with a divinely-mandated outreach program plus that whole “secret conspiracy” thing without being a frequently distrusted minority already. Years later, I realized I was probably special in an entirely different cynical way; as a Proximus, I filled a big, Awakened magic-shaped hole in the skinthief cabal’s knowledge of the occult. Not fun, for people who literally called themselves rainmaker sorcerers. Still, Itzpapalotl seemed to like me enough...to the extent the goddess of destruction fated to end the world could like anything. She seemed fond enough of mothers and midwives, neither of which I had any intention of currying favor via _being_ , thank you.

 

And no, the _nahualtin_ did not directly worship any more cheerful gods. It’s the kind of thing that occurred when the god whose actual job it was to bring about rain was called the Flayed Lord. At least we realized the “human sacrifice” thing was supposed to be a _metaphor_ , though I don’t think people would like the new and improved version of sacrifice any better. We kinda-sorta-maybe were a shapeshifting witch-cult that had a divine duty to be secret police, after all.

 

But I digress. For her part, Ash probably didn’t care if I had a sane reason for serving the Angel of Doom or not. It just didn’t impact her all that much. But it seemed to satisfy her. She nodded, comprehending, before the smoke dissipated.

 

Which meant I had one last thing to check. I pulled the shawl around myself, gave it a tug and-

 

I was suddenly a lot smaller. A quick click of my tongue confirmed it-I got a second picture of the room in my brain just from hearing the echo.

 

A tiny little bat took off to rejoin her pack.

 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, this is where we get into the major changes. Though really, as far as cults go, the Simurgh is the kind of entity that sprouts them like weed fertilizer (a beautiful alien angel who seems omniscient and enforces a divine plan simply by singing at somewhere? That’s the kind of thing that spawns religions to explain, much less alters an existing one to account for her). Especially given how the Endbringers...aren’t always, in this world. They’re not public knowledge, largely because they’re subtler-and they don’t always destroy forever. Sometimes, they catalyze.
> 
> And by the way, she’s not a spirit here. Ash is simply going off her own occult view of the world. Nobody said the Shadow was all-knowing.
> 
> (Also, forgive the pig Nagual; I don’t speak it, and to be frank, neither do modern nahualtin; they’re exactly as much as like as their Mexica forebears as the Day of the Dead is, for largely the same reasons.)


	7. Nocturnal 1.1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lisa, a mercenary and witch, is approached with an idea for a moderately lucrative job.

* * *

_Once upon a time, there was a princess._  
  
Unlike the princess of the docks, this one had wealth and was heir to a mighty title. Her family was an old and mighty house, one blessed by the vagaries of strength and history-and more than that, were born of an ancient house with all claims to divine right by blood. Their ancestor was, in all ways that mattered, a sea god.  
  
Sadly, they inherited the infamous arrogance of the gods as well. They were princes and queens, dukes and countesses in the truest sense possible-it was their right to be the masters, and the illness forged in the crucible of mortal flesh and deific gene was taken as a blandishment to simply rule well. So, to those who showed a reluctance to take the throne, or be willing pawns in taking the throne, their traditions showed only contempt. And some, like the crown prince, simply could not live as either predator or chess piece.  
  
In her grief, the true princess turned to stranger magics than her birth-she wanted no part of this terrible clan that viewed its own son as a mere sword to be mourned for its loss of utility. In time, she found her means of escape-and within it, her true calling. And so she became known as the Shapeless Sciomancer.  
  
But arrogance is not simply found in hunger for power. Flush with faith, the Sciomancer strode boldly into heathen lands to bring her gospel of sacrifice and harmony-but in her youthful pride, ran afoul of a Grasping Diviner. Now a vassal to a tyrant, the Sciomancer sadly gathered for him new knights, none knowing of the hidden noose around her neck-but she did not escape to be a slave somewhere else.

 

 

* * *

 

Drip..  
  
“ _Quiyahuitl_.”  
  
Drip.  
  
“ _Tlamictizque_.”  
  
Drip.  
  
“ _Ihqui tlacoti._ ”  
  
With every drop of red, another couple words of the susurrus, airy and almost breathy in its pronunciation, almost as if the echo of the blood drops was the one speaking, a voice of dark times thousands of years past.  
  
The chamber was kept dark, to not offend the night-dwelling deity upon which the increasingly red idol was based upon. While the owners of the shrine could not actually construct a stone room for the shrine, the wallpaper was decorated well enough to simulate the temples of the culture that had once called upon the ancient one for protection and fertility-and to placate their often vicious lady of the spaces between stars.  
  
In the exact center of the room, kept on a raised dais, was a jewelled, jade image of the awful goddess herself, wings outstretched in a swooping pose. Those familiar with lore of relatively recent phenomenon would recognize her as a terrible angel of despair, one witnessed before disaster of a very human type occurred, but…altered. Her face, rather than being a stoic, painfully beautiful woman’s, was a skull with painted pearl eyes, still stoic, still beautiful despite her exposed bone. Two of her upper wings were those of bats, and extending from just above her pelvis was a rattlesnake of black obsidian, eternally flicking a tongue of stone. One that was growing steadily redder.  
  
As the chant neared its end, the blood animated, flowing out of the serpent’s tongue in a smooth red stream towards a small fur shawl of black and silver. Slowly, the shawl started to twitch and tense as the blood drew closer. As the chant finished, the blood touched the shawl-and it drank greedily, a slurping sound echoing as the rest of the red was rapidly absorbed. As it did so, the sacrificial wound closed, leaving barely a scar, and the fur turned as shiny and thick as any living animal.  


 

**\----------------**

  
There were many things in my life I’d thought would never happen.  
  
This wasn’t one of them, but that was a result of failure of imagination on my part.  
  
The heavyset woman looked about as comfortable as I did, if not less so. The sheer amount of _awkward_ in the air probably caused an increase in air weight could show up on scientific instruments, if you considered “scientific” as “somewhat more fine-tuned than ‘guy with rock in one hand and weighed item in the other’.”  
  
Really, who even _considers_ the possibility that the _local leader of the government-sponsored monster hunters_ ringing you up and now talking out the terms of a contract? Let alone said leader in question. Well, okay that wasn’t quite true; for all the “humanity is the best, rah-rah-rah” cheer of hunters in general, they knew full well of the power disparity between them and we humble shadow folk. Here in the real world, a hunter who hoped to do anything worthwhile was a hypocrite or they were dead. Or complete psychos, but most of _those_ didn’t want to save the world.  
  
Major Emily Piggot, for her part, did not look well. I got the sense her generous weight wasn’t due to any overindulgence, but because she was medically prohibited from exercise and couldn’t have the benefit of a healthy diet on the job. Unhealthy foods were usually the cheap, easily consumed kind that didn’t require you to relax. One scant second of eye contact later, I confirmed why this didn’t translate into ‘retirement plan’-I suspected trying to mentally influence her would result in the source of said influence promptly developing a concussion. Pure steel in that glare.  
  
Still didn’t mean I couldn’t play a bit of the power game myself. I gave one of my trademarked smiles. “So, ma’am,” I began, faux-cheerfully, “What brings one of the high and mighty down here to the motley collection of rejects?” Informal, falsely-polite; emphasizing the only reason she’s here is that she needs us, and I know it.  
  
She got the implication. Her eyes narrowed a bit. “Cut with theatrics, Tattletale. You’re being hired because of convenience, nothing more-having to deal with yet more oh-so-whimsical witches does nothing but remind me of people who I know to be reliable.”  
  
Swing and a hit. “And yet you’re asking the Warehouse of Misfit Toys rather than the Arsenal of Freedom to help you. Somehow I suspect that ‘convenience’ doesn’t cover the whole thing. But I digress.” I fell back into a serious face. “Before we get started, can I agree on some terms here? I don’t feel like sticking out my friends’ necks for someone I normally find on the other end of kissing shotguns without _some_ assurance. You know the typical deal?”  
  
“We _made_ the typical deal, witch.” Crap, bad call. Intimidation is not offending people. Note to self, Piggot is a bit twitchy when forced into a negotiation she hates. “I would not push my luck with new aspects.”  
  
I waved my hands, placatingly. “No offense! I’m fine with no names, no avoidable deaths, no altering the deal. It’s just that, well...” I glanced meaningfully at the busted couch.  
  
“Money is not the issue, miss. It’s your competence.” She glanced just as meaningfully at a patch of mildew.  
  
“That’s actually a feature,” I said, in complete honesty. “We’re _technically_ a Forsaken pack-”  
  
“Funny, so are my actual reliable assets.” She narrowed her eyes even further. ‘Why you have a fungus spirit as a totem-”  
  
“Spirit of outcasts,” I corrected. “Rolls-In-The-Ash is a conceptual spirit of scavengers. She likes fungi, as they are an entire domain of scavengers.”  
  
“Oh. My apologies.” She sounded genuine there. I sensed something of a kindred spirit when it came to knowledge about the Shadow. “But _technically_ doesn’t cut it with me. There are five of you, and I know for a fact only two are actually werewolves. So to be blunt, the actual service that comes to mind when people think ‘pack of werewolves’ is something you are not good at.”  
  
In another world, this would be intimidating.  
  
In this world, I tried to avoid cracking a grin as I my next question. “And yet, you’re still hiring us.” Hook.  
  
“I am _considering_ hiring you.” Line… “I am considering not, if all I get is some know-it-all teenager with a god complex sniping at me and the honor of Task Force VALKYRIE.” Sinker.  
  
I did my best to look offended. “Miss, even if you didn’t have one of the best goetists in the city or a goblin trainer here, let alone both at once, this ‘know-it-all teenager’ is competent enough to act smug.”  
  
Piggot had very nearly closed her eyes. “Prove it.”  
  
And now for the sales pitch. “Your full name and title is Major Emily Schofield Piggot,” I began. “You tie for the youngest of three siblings, as you are a fraternal twin. Your parents met in the Navy. Dad was a tech engineer, mom was a professional musician who played at his favorite bar on shore leave. None of the three of you had any interest in the support side of the armed forces; big sis was always too fond of her guns to consider not signing up; your brother is an avowed pacifist, albeit one with limits. You followed your sister into the military, but while she became a pilot, you joined the army.”  
  
“You’ve proven you can use the internet,” Piggot replied, eyebrow raised. “My brother is also an avid blogger, and I’ll wager he puts his life story on there.”  
  
I smirked. “You were disciplined once for breaking a fellow cadet’s hand, but your peers covered for you and made it a ‘training accident’, as he was playing grab-ass and actual sexual harassment would have ruined your career under Don’t Ask Don’t Tell, as your superiors wouldn’t realize you aren’t attracted to anyone, same gender or no.”  
  
Piggot’s jaw clenched even as her eyes widened.  
  
“When you were promoted to First Lieutenant, you had an encounter with an extra-normal entity, to use the official term, that the Cambodians in the village you were assigned to protect called the Son of Garuda, a giant hawk that regularly attacked you and the natives with powerful storms. You figured out it was protecting a shrine to Vishnu that a local had accidentally damaged and drew it out by drawing easily removable graffiti on it; after knocking it out, you used the time it spent unconscious to repair the shrine without its misguided interference, which meant that, when Task Force: VALKYRIE followed typical procedure and transferred you over to them, you were promoted for your actions resulting in minimal loss of life and opening a quote, friendly line of dialogue with a non-malicious ENE, unquote. From there, you were on the shortlist for the Paranormal Relations Team, despite your professed dislike of dealing with them and loudly protesting being put on what you colloquially described as the ‘nice-nice squad’ to a friend.” I left out _why_ she disliked being on the PRT, as I didn’t want to sour my sales pitch by triggering possible PTSD _at best._  
  
My little spiel had the desired effect. The look on her face was a national treasure.  
  
After a couple seconds, she quickly resumed her normal glare. “You’re still a smartass.”  
  
“Ah, but the first syllable in that is _smart,_ isn’t it? So, let’s just skip to the end and just tell me what it is you came to the Undersiders for, without informing your superiors of precisely the context for that authorization?”  


 

* * *

  
“Unexplained disappearances? That’s it?” Brian Laborn, one of two actual werewolves in our werewolf pack and formal leader (I _refused_ to use the term “alpha”), looked about as skeptical as could be expected that the local leader of VALKYRIE had come down on high to get us to do what any private detective worth his salt could.  
  
“Yeah. I would be skeptical too, if I didn’t know the in-house team already tried.” I smirked. “As it is, your prophetess has looked into the depths of the ether, and beheld the truth; she’s out of ideas.”  
  
“Seriously?” Alec, our security expert and the one deserving the title of “witch” more than me, looked at me in disbelief. This was one of three actual emotive expressions he seemed to be capable of (the others being concentration and ‘trollface’), though to be fair he tried his best with the others. “The leader of the literal MIB in the area, part of the team that was _made_ to find the proper ass to kiss for all your paranormal needs, can’t find anything else?”  
  
“She would, if she had the resources,” I said, my trademark smile still in place. “As it is, VALKYRIE hasn’t made friends of esohumanity, beyond the Protectorate. Everyone who matters in the Directional Courts hates them, the Ivory Claws aren’t happy with the E88 remaining thoroughly stuck on the FBI’s hate group’s list, the Merchants are...the Merchants, and-”  
  
I nearly shrieked when I felt the tap on my shoulder, before my emotions resolved into annoyance. “Hello, Aisha.”  
  
Aisha Laborn, the other actual werewolf, span me around. “Er, aren’t the Merchants vampires? I know the Directionals are the local changelings, and the Ivory Claws are part of the asshole werewolves, but what’s the political deal with the bloodsuckers?”  
  
“They’re leftovers,” I stated, bluntly. “Skidmark and his brood are the only known vampires in Brockton Bay left, because to the Protectorate, they’re not worth the effort. All he has left are his team and his ghouls, and he didn’t have much to begin with.”  
  
The newly-Changed werewolf tilted her head. “‘Ghoul?’ I’m going to take a wild guess and assume that’s not a corpse-eating corpse.”  
  
“Nope, though a desperate one might eat the ashes of a dead vamp.” I leaned back, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice at the barrage of questions. “Vampire blood contains, er, the essence of their immortality, and a mortal fed it becomes eternally frozen at the age they started taking it, until the feed cuts out. It’s also hyper-addictive, so the vampire gets a superpowered servant out of the deal that can walk around in the day and most true esohumans won’t notice.”  
  
I suddenly had a horrific realization of what adjective I used.  
  
“True esohuman? What, there’s such a thing as a pretend werewolf?”  
  
Oi. I smiled a little too brightly and continued. “Yes, but they’re generally other esohumans. Generally, ‘Esohuman’ is a specific term for a supernatural creature who has its own culture with others of their kind, and can imitate mortals for a long period of time, _while_ being substantially different from the normal psychology of _Homo sapiens_. Since ghouls are incapable of existing on their own without vampires, as otherwise they’ll detox and turn into normal humans, they don’t count. It’s also why hunters with my caliber of magic avoid the term, as we aren’t that changed mentally.”  
  
I glanced at Alec. “Even if Regent over there wasn’t...a little muted, emotionally, he’d still be the person who can look into your brain with a glance, and whose sanity pivots on the fact that he’s obsessed with gaining more magical knowledge, and thus can shut off his sixth through ninth senses by focusing on one stream of data at a time.” Which wasn’t technically true, but if I tried to explain the Abyss we’d be here all day and Aisha would need migrane medication. “And mages are the _least_ changed, mentally, by going strange.”  
  
Comprehension dawned. “You’re talking about Uratha instincts.”  
  
_“Urum Da Takus_ and all, right? Werewolves can’t avoid being predators lest their spirit sides wither and die, leaving only Rage.” I winced. “Remember your First Change? If you weren’t hunting, that would be a monthly occurrence, except worse.”  
  
“‘The Wolf Must Hunt’,” Aisha repeated, nodding. “I see where you’re going with this.”  
  
Then befuddlement. “Wait, isn’t that First Tongue? I thought you said spirits don’t like it if a human speaks their language, comes off as imperialistic and rude.”  
  
“I’m not a mage, Aisha. I’m just related to them, and given my ‘special abilities’, the spirits don’t mind a human knowing a bit of First Tongue, if I use the proper dialect.”  
  
“‘Proper dialect’? Is there like, a funny accent you have to do, like some kind of Southern drawl except more ‘monkey’ and less-”  
  
Thankfully, Brian stepped in. “Sis, can we hear about the job, first? ”  
  
“Right. Sorry, newbie asking stupid questions…” Aisha retreated back into her patch of shadows.  
  
“Okay,” I turned back. “As I was saying, Merchants are right out, and the mages like Armsmaster about as much as we do. It was us or Faultline, and she’s more expensive than what the military budget offers for PMCs.”  
  
“So...we’re discount mercs.” Alec raised an eyebrow. “Do we have a hire one team, get one freelancer free deal going on? Because I’d really like someone who can actually wield a gun.”  
  
“Nope. An entire team _is_ the wholesale value.” Aisha said from her corner. “At least we aren’t _used_ cheap muscle.”  
  
“Anyway,” I continued. “We’re basically being asked to be changeling hunters. Some big shot in the Eastern Court vanished, and seeing as how Lung is always looking to add a bit to the North from his erstwhile peers, we’ve been asked to find him, or at least what caused him to vanish-ideally something that turns Lung off expanding his territory.” I brought out my cell phone and flipped to a picture of a certain bus and attendant trucks. “Unfortunately, and this is really why VALKYRIE or the Protectorate can’t do sweeps themselves, Benediah Clover’s back in town and holding a sermon nearby. If our trusty televangelist mage found out, he’d be all too happy to provoke a publicity-generating scandal about them big bad government menacing his here free speech; the former publicly, the latter with the mages. Either way, he becomes even more of a thorn in VALKYRIE’s side.”  
  
“And we’re the deniable asset,” Brian finished, nodding. “So, what’s the payment?”  
  
“Money, obviously. Three thousand, half of which is paid up front. Should finally be able to fix that roof and television, now.” Alec opened his mouth to object, but I rose a finger. “Again, discount mercs. But then Piggot threw in something else.” I flipped the image to a new one. “Recognize this?”  
  
Brian’s eyes shot open, and Alec leaned in. “Is that…?”  
  
“Yep. It’s a Musul Akade egg. Piggot realized we desperately needed a guard other than the voices in Alec’s head, and she knows we live right on top of an entrance to Mentis so it should be right at home. We get a new, and subtle, guard dog that we can use as a spy as well, and we can finally repair our home. Seems like a good deal to me.”  
  
“If we can ever figure out how to train it,” Aisha piped up. “Rachel’s good, but I don’t think a sentient swarm of bugs from before time is her thing.”  
  
Doesn’t know what a ghoul is but can describe a spirit that is normally only found in pocket dimensions. Should have seen that one coming. “Immaterial mind that possesses a bunch of insects at once, actually. And most of her hobgoblins aren’t capable of speaking,” I replied, more confident than I felt. “A Musul Akade isn’t that different from a guard dog, and they’re usually just as loyal to people who treat them right.”  
  
“And if we pull this off, VALKYRIE will be eager to pay us in the future,” Brian finished. “I think we’ve already accepted so I’ll pry Rachel out of her den. Also; Lisa? I think you had a rite of gratitude to attend to?”  
  
I winced as I rubbed my chest, feeling the scar. “Right on top of it.”  


 

* * *

  
Once upon a time, I was scared of fire. Something about flames looked alive to me, writhing and dancing with no goal but to consume and reduce. Later I was told this was, of course, ridiculous; my family _controlled_ flame if you trained your blood right, we knew most of all how fundamentally mindless fire was; to us, it was more like a limb in search of a wielder than anything. The fact I was fire-adverse was one of the many reasons I was not the family scion.  
  
These days, I think my younger self was onto something.  
  
Fire itself was mindless, of course, and completely bound by its nature-but from the moment I came into my real self, I realized that “mind” and “will” were not the same thing. Just because, say, a tree did not think did not mean it did not fight to survive at all costs, every cell of its plant existence based around maximizing its chances of growth and reproduction. Plants strategize-they grow in ways that react to the all-important sun, and they conspire with symbiotic fungi and bacteria to make their roots ever more efficient. A particular species of mushroom, _Laccaria bicolor,_ even turns its patron tree into a predator-it colonizes the innards of unsuspecting insects that eat it and digests it from the inside out, releasing nitrogen that is useless to the fungus but what its tree devours greedily. In return, the mushroom shares in the tree’s own nutrients and may grow within its roots.  
  
Inanimate things did not have as apparent a will, of course, but I suspected that’s because I didn’t know where, or bother, to look. Fire not the least of it, with its capacity to make more of itself with simple heat, to hide in the ash for new sources of fuel, camouflaged among the black as tiny little embers of red just itching for something dry. And in a stroke of genius, it became useful to humans; the story of humanity was the story of fire’s ultimate triumph, to find a way to become indispensable to an entire species that knew how to make more of it with nothing but twigs and friction.  
  
Yes, this was ridiculous. Me, ascribing motives to a chemical reaction? My tween self would laugh in my face, and quite rightly. But that was a long time ago-a long time before I actually called forth a spirit of the Shadow, born of the will-the _Essence_ -inherent in all things; plants, fire, rocks, machines, animals, even emotional states. I knew better now. And it was really amazing I felt safe enough to get out of bed in the morning.  
  
At the most basic level, spirits were a lot like fire. Much as fire had no will except to feed itself, spirits had no true desires other than to feed on Essence that was like their own personal natures. The difference though, was that spirits also had minds. Auxiliary minds, it should be noted; all other things being equal, a spirit could let go of its sentience and be none the worse for its core purpose of eating, if the spirit didn’t mind being a grazer. But all things weren’t equal; in the Shadow, everything and anything was made of Essence, and all spirits can eat any Essence. It wasn’t _safe_ to do that (some Essence is toxic to a particular species of spirit, or worse), but seeing as how any great store of Essence left to its own devices would pool into a spirit that immediately would set about competing for stores of the inanimate type of Essence, it was simply easier, and safer, to be a predator. Combine that with the fact that all spirits are also prey for the above reasons, and one had a recipe for an occult ecology where every living thing could strike up a conversation (however limited) with you. But a spirit’s mind was more like a wolf’s claw than a human’s brain; it was an adaptation to make its life easier, not the capacity for choice. Spirits, from the lowliest beetle-spirit to the embodiments of national governments, all had two goals; to eat, and to not be eaten in return.  
  
Anyone who thought that made them stupid was likely going to be third on the menu, with items one and two involving them being the unwilling waiter. Spirits were _focused,_ and that determination usually meant that they were damned smart, often outright brilliant. A long time ago, they realized humans, that weird ape that seemed to never have a spiritual representative of the species itself, had the ability to direct their own will at things-in effect, to generate all flavors and types of Essence with the proper beliefs, actions, and especially rituals. The more social spirits (because even in a world where everyone could eat everyone else, it makes more sense to pool resources), realized that working together with humans would lead to a more sustainable flow of Essence.  
  
Hence shamans. Therefore, why I was sitting in a dark room, burning sweet herbs while I was chanting appeasements in a dead language.  
  
Thankfully, my sentient idealized embodiment of carrion-eaters of a co-worker was never too far away. Rolls-In-The-Ash, like most Forsaken pack totems, didn’t stray far from our home for her own safety; the sane werewolves instinctively served as what was effectively police for the spirit world, and nobody liked a snitch (even if neither of ours really cared about the Shadow itself all that much-we kept our eyes firmly on more human-ish enemies). Soon, the smoke started to collate into the impression of long black feathers, a canid snout, and interwoven mycelium filaments for limbs, with embers dancing in a specific place to give the impression of eyes.  
  
“ _Thal kal bu, Asgar-_ Lisa _._ ” The impression of eyes bounced as Ash’s simulacra nodded.  
  
“ _Duaf nu habalthu, kal nu habalthu_ , Ash,” I replied. To any other spirit that would be an implied threat, but to a peaceful scavenger, it was an affirmation of friendliness (‘I won’t start any trouble you won’t’). “Can I speak in English, though? As far as I know, my shawl’s still revitalizing, and I really don’t want to disrupt the ceremony with a First Tongue phrase book.”  
  
“If I speak brief-being,” Ash replied, shrugging. “On human languages, learning-now I am.”  
  
Yes, First Tongue had a pretty weird grammatical structure. I heard it was literally impossible to learn without supernatural influence, more than once. I thought that was something of an exaggeration (the phrasebook I mentioned actually existed), but given the fractal amount of situational dialects (based on location, type of entity speaking, type of entity being spoken _to,_ relative level of own power, friendliness and/or hostility, whether you were in your territory, and so on and so forth), it wasn’t much of one (hell, the only reason _I_ could speak in First Tongue was my shawl, and even then I usually needed to be wearing it in order to be at all fluent). “Okay then. Good.”  
  
I bowed, taking out my ritual knife. “Noble spirit, I come before thee as friend and servant. You have guided me well, and I offer thee and thy kindred the drink of gods, sacrifice for sacrifice.”  
  
With that, I spun the obsidian athame around, slicing open my scar in a single fluid motion and staining the knife red. Wincing as I held the cut shut, I held the blade into the flames, turning it black again with preternatural speed as Ash growled happily-just as the wound I made closed. It was like the scar had never opened at all-though given how I had abused it recently, I did feel a little woozy.  
  
“The _umia_ pleased Essence-gift with,” she replied after drinking of the blood. “Humble us-be at kin-drink of sun-tenders.” The embers blinked. “Say right-that? Enough?”  
  
“Yeah, that works.” If only because I knew enough First Tongue to get a rough idea of what she was trying to say. Still, that was miles better than most spirits, some of whom didn’t realize the sounds the apes made was a form of communication as complex as their own. “Bet Nibbles-On-Bulwarks will like that.”  
  
“Yes. Dock-Essence bad-flow, spirits all. Hungry, running, starving not need.”  
  
Wait, hold on. “Spirits _all?_ Wait, are you trying to say that _all_ spirits are having trouble?”  
  
“ _Asgar_ -Lisa no idea has. Harvest bad-bad, loci living but dry. Hungry-all, dream-spirits except.” She paused for a second, shaking her head. “Ed. Excepted.”  
  
Huh. I’d have to look into that. Or kick it up the chain to someone who had a vested interest in the Docks. “Ah. That’s nice to know. Well, hope that blood feeds the brood well.”  
  
“Thought-recall,” Ash replied, looking meaningfully in the direction of my shrine. “ _Asgar_ -Lisa _gathra_ to great spirit. Normal-this. But hear I that spirit human-called…” She paused. I couldn’t see her mouth, but it was clear she was trying to say it.  
  
“Simurgh?” I helpfully offered.  
  
“Yes-yes, what look for I. Simurgh-spirit Stray-Lost say human-hating. Human you. Why give _gathra_?”  
  
“Because one,” I said, pulling out my bat-wing shawl, “She’s the god I call on to charge this thing. For another, her true name is Itzpapaloptl. Aztec goddess of rebirth. You get that concept, don’t you?”  
  
She caught on. “Ah. Simurgh-spirit provide scavengers. Kill people, change fate she, leave food for life-new.”  
  
“Quite.” I looked at the Mesoamerican lettering on my athame. “Three, her other shamans saved my life.”  
  
I didn’t need to explain much more than that. Scavengers got what it meant to be pulled back from death-after all, accepting someone who was spiritually dead inside after...the incident....was a form of recycling dead matter. Such as a fallen scion of the Merovingian line of almost-wizards turned witch-priestess of ancient gods, all claim my extended family made to being Atlantean royalty spat upon and forgotten.  
  
Of course, my mentor said that this made me even more blessed in the eyes of the Teotl, the Mexica ( _not Aztec_ ) gods. He said the fact that I (metaphorically) sacrificed my life as much as the other _ichpocatl nahualtin_ did made my devotion to the purity and recompense of the gods clear. It took me weeks to stop glancing at my sweetbread-in-a-snowstorm reflection and wonder if it had more to do with a divinely-mandated outreach program plus that whole “secret conspiracy” thing without being a frequently distrusted minority already. Years later, I realized I was probably special in an entirely different cynical way; as a Proximus, I filled a big, Awakened magic-shaped hole in the skinthief cabal’s knowledge of the occult. Not fun, for people who literally called themselves rainmaker sorcerers. Still, Itzpapalotl seemed to like me enough...to the extent the goddess of destruction fated to end the world could like anything. She seemed fond enough of mothers and midwives, neither of which I had any intention of currying favor via _being_ , thank you.  
  
And no, the _nahualtin_ did not directly worship any more cheerful gods. It’s the kind of thing that occurred when the god whose actual job it was to bring about rain was called the Flayed Lord. At least we realized the “human sacrifice” thing was supposed to be a _metaphor_ , though I don’t think people would like the new and improved version of sacrifice any better. We kinda-sorta-maybe were a shapeshifting witch-cult that had a divine duty to be secret police, after all.  
  
But I digress. For her part, Ash probably didn’t care if I had a sane reason for serving the Angel of Doom or not. It just didn’t impact her all that much. But it seemed to satisfy her. She nodded, comprehending, before the smoke dissipated.  
  
Which meant I had one last thing to check. I pulled the shawl around myself, gave it a tug and-  
  
I was suddenly a lot smaller. A quick click of my tongue confirmed it-I got a second picture of the room in my brain just from hearing the echo.  
  
A tiny little bat took off to rejoin her pack.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, this is where we get into the major changes. Though really, as far as cults go, the Simurgh is the kind of entity that sprouts them like weed fertilizer (a beautiful alien angel who seems omniscient and enforces a divine plan simply by singing at somewhere? That’s the kind of thing that spawns religions to explain, much less alters an existing one to account for her). Especially given how the Endbringers...aren’t always, in this world. They’re not public knowledge, largely because they’re subtler-and they don’t always destroy forever. Sometimes, they catalyze.
> 
> And by the way, she’s not a spirit here. Ash is simply going off her own occult view of the world. Nobody said the Shadow was all-knowing.
> 
> (Also, forgive the pig Nagual; I don’t speak it, and to be frank, neither do modern nahualtin; they’re exactly as much as like as their Mexica forebears as the Day of the Dead is, for largely the same reasons.)


	8. Nocturnal 1.2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Undersiders, a group of urban fantasy villains, enter the domain of bigger fish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, I didn't post chapter 7 until now. Whoops.

There were three hidden tips to anyone moving to Brockton Bay, which I only discovered _after_ I actually finished moving.  
  


  1. If you are involved in the occult, don’t publicize yourself before you feel out the political situation.
  2. If you are _mortal_ , recognize you need an esohuman patron, and if you don’t, one will appoint themself regardless of your wishes.
  3. Always, always, _always_ bring winter clothes. It gets freaking cold out here, no matter how “wonderful” the surrounding weather is.



  
I discovered the hard way the reason for all three. I was a stupid child of..fifteen. Bad analogy. But still, I was stupid; I was still high on life after I had just been fully initiated into the _nahualtin_ and finalized my very own skinthieving rite. I discovered the hard way that, no matter how much your creed tells you that the letter of the law is less important than the spirit, missionary work did not give you _carte blanche_ to steal money to help set up a branch, not without consequences.  
  
Some of those consequences were fine by me. I _liked_ the other Undersiders, as the pack called itself, and I loved exploring Mentis; even beyond what my family claimed about our ancestors ruling the place (I had my doubts), the subterranean city was just filled with so many secrets to uncover, so many things to learn (foremost among them was that the term ‘ur-bitch’ really didn’t cut it with one of the ruling Blue Women, but their culture was still fascinating in the fascistic car wreck sense). The reason we were _called_ the Undersiders, in fact, is that we formed primarily for the sake of spelunking and keeping our corner of the city safe from human threats to it.  
  
Of course, a person with the mastery of perception conferred by having the ability to recognize the world around them existed might wonder exactly why _we_ were the guards. As evinced by the fact we were five rejects from supernatural society (or four-and-a-half; Rachel was perfectly happy to sit in her goblin kennel until we actively went to fetch her, which took quite a bit of time-assuming she wasn’t out doing the bare minimum of human interaction needed to maintain her sanity), we weren’t exactly a crack team of mighty guardians who the forces of chaos and defilement shrank back from. In fact, I would agree; by all rights, we should not even have met, let alone formed a pack dedicated to something that only Alec and I, being linked to the Time Before when Mentis was actually inhabited by humans, inherently gave a damn about.  
  
That was because of the main consequence I hated; quite simply, the Undersiders were formed largely because the actual owner of our gateway didn’t want to be bothered with guarding it every damn day. Now that some poor blonde schmuck had fallen into his lap, he now had an easy goon squad, most of which did not know his _gender,_ let alone who he was. He let me tell them enough so that they knew in advance I was somebody else’s pawn, and that somebody was the main reason we had a roof over our heads.  
  
Which meant I had to report to him whenever we got a new mission.  
  
Unfortunately, my erstwhile boss had a method to contact him that did not involve him giving out any phone number, or even a prepaid phone I could potentially trace back to him and throw to the authorities (it wouldn’t hold him for long, but it was still a potential weapon). Rather, his friends in New York had given him a ritual that would allow his servants to give him a short message about what they wanted to contact him for, and then he would call us on a hidden number. Which was why I was now showing a letter addressed to Hyperion, Eos, Selene, and Helios to a security camera. There was a brief flicker on the red light as the spell took effect, which I took as my signal to leave; I would be erased from the camera footage due to a mysterious but minor glitch, but it would only erase the time I was showing it the letter; I preferred to have as little of my appearance, even disguised via hoodie, on camera as possible.  
  
Let’s see. Boss man was generally home in the morning, which probably meant he got my message. It took about half a minute to read what I could fit on a 12 by 4 centimeter (not inches-it was a British ritual) scrap of paper, so…  
  
My specific ringtone for my “patron” (technically all unknown numbers, but come on), a snippet from a piano remix of _Mass Destruction_ from _Persona 3_ (and my way of quietly indicating exactly what I thought of him in a way he would never catch on) started up. Like clockwork. Hit green button, and…“When were we going to see each other, I had such a fun time” I recited automatically and flatly.  
  
“At dusk, when we needed you and I most,” the computer-modulated voice of Coil replied, though I couldn’t tell if he was being just as unenthused about the spy speak or it was a side effect of whatever voice distortion app he was using. “Formalities aside, unless your handwriting is substantially worse today, I’m impressed, Lisa.” As shown by the use of my new legal name; one could generally tell if Coil was happy by how passive-aggressive he was being. “Although I must express my sympathy for the location. Our dear Mr. Clover’s sermons can be..disruptive, if you upset him.”  
  
“Don’t I know. That’s why we’re being sent in, after all. People like us who aren’t affiliated with anyone can be conveniently thrown under the bus before he gets to explode at larger prey.” I sighed. “But let’s cut to the chase.” While he obviously couldn’t see me (in fact, we had only met once directly, to authorize me for the ritual), I put on my smile-best to practice it for when we actually did meet and he immediately didn’t think of a poster captioned with ‘Screaming Internally’. “Anything you want me to do?”  
  
“Not much as of yet, my dear.” _My_ dear. It was always _my_ with him. “I merely wish you to contact me after you have finished your preliminary investigation. The Docks have been displaying some odd traits as of late, and the Manteia has indicated this disappearance is linked somehow.”  
  
Oh great, the Dock’s Essence sterility was part of a Mystery. Grand, yet more troubles to be dragged into. “Odd traits? Could you please explain, sir?” I said, playing dumb.  
  
“Nice try Sarah. Your totem spirit has probably already explained what you need to know.” Shoot. Well, can’t be blamed for a shot. “All I need is your trace on what you found. No more and no less. Contact me the usual way.” Click.  
  
“...Rude.”  
  
Ah well. At least he didn’t ask me to betray my employer, again.  
  


* * *

  
Say what you would about Brother-Father Ben. When he was preparing to make an entrance, he didn’t aim low.  
  
“Mother-” The other half of my swear was cut off by my shawl yanking me flat on my face.  
  
Although he could stand to have less pointy objects, especially on a temporary tent. Not wanting to have to explain my presence to the trespasser-adverse preacher, I had snuck in in bat form. Of course, the problem with that was that I had to turn back into a girl eventually, and that meant a private place-even if it wasn’t a sane precaution, skintheives inherited their totem’s instincts, and bats were _skittish_. It took me a couple weeks after I got my skin to not instantly curl into a fetal position after I changed back, and even now the idea of changing anywhere that had more than five square feet to it was so fur-wettingly terrifying that I just about needed to be in danger for my life before my chiropteran id realized that, yanno, maybe opposable thumbs were a benefit in a given situation?  
  
Unfortunately, the most convenient enclosed space around was under Ben’s altar, already clothed. My shawl had a tendency to fluff out when I shed my form, a side effect of a very small mass becoming the size of a borderline adult. It was also somewhat alive, and thus immediately tensed back into a comfortable position hanging over my shoulders. Which meant it had a tendency to catch on things. Who knows, maybe the altar didn’t approve of rivals using it as a pit stop.  
  
Thankfully, I chose this altar because it too, was isolated from any company-the workmen had come home for the day, and Ben himself plus cabal was hosting a soup kitchen. So, the Undersiders had the run of the place for the next couple hours; more than enough time to at least figure out the parties involved. So while I tensed when I heard the quiet snort, it didn’t take long for me to figure out the source.  
  
“I see the Aztec gods have blessed their chosen with the divine power of comedy pratfalls,” Aisha said as she giggled a little more. “Oh high and mighty Huehueheotl, we thank thee for this lowbrow!” An actual laugh followed her latest one-liner, as I reflected on how much of it was a relief it was that she probably only smelled and heard me. I’d never hear the end of it if she saw the _mechanism_ for my clumsiness when changing back.  
  
“Hey, not all of us feel safe in the Shadow.” I replied, helping the shawl unhook itself. “And not even most of those who _do_ don’t have an aunt that gave them a magic item that lets them cross worlds wherever they please, thank you very much.” There was a brief shiver from the shawl as it regrew a bit of fur as I crawled out from under the cloth.  
  
“First of all, you can say ‘spirit fetish’, that joke got old after a week.” A coarse, long-clawed human hand helped me up-much to nobody’s surprise, Aisha was in the mostly-human Dalu form, one of the basic five all werewolves had, and generally the one they took when they were hunting and didn’t need to hide. “Second, it’s a trade-off.”  
  
I felt the guilt impact my gut. “Right. Let’s pretend I never said that.” The Laborn family situation was not one any member thereof wished to speak of-even in relation to werewolf families in general (it’s what happens when literally every member of the species is a soldier or hunter of some kind-death and abandonment happens). Stupid mouth. “Anyway, where’s the others? I know how you got here, but Rachel-”  
  
“Is still being crowbarred out of the Hedge, last I heard.” As with most of the stealthy Irraka werewolves who First Changed under the new moon, Aisha’s alternate forms were all distinctly sleek. She was a stalker and a saboteur by nature, not a frontline warrior, and it showed. If she had flipped her hood up and you weren’t looking closely, you’d probably never notice that she wasn’t entirely human-the fur on her arms blended in perfectly with her skin and her talons were short and white enough to resemble long nails rather than supra-lupine organic daggers. “Though that really isn’t her fault, I think. Brian says the fae world of dreams hasn’t really been stable for a while.”  
  
That...was not reassuring. “Is he safe?”  
  
“Yeah, the problem’s with the trods, not the Thorns. It’s still not nearly chaotic enough to the point where his dark can’t mute the literal maelstrom of issues long enough to think.”  
  
 _Still_ not reassuring. The Hedge, even beyond being the border world between Earth and the reasons why Rachel still flinched whenever she got wet, was the kind of place you went to if you felt you desperately needed extra psychological trauma. I very much did _not_ ; I could Hedge-walk with a guide, but that was only because I would promptly shapeshift, find the warmest, most comforting place I could in said guide’s backpack and promptly retreat into my happy place.  
  
That also meant I was terrible at navigating something that was a damn good escape route and resource for pretty much anything, but fuck it, I had the worst day of my life; I did _not_ need to revisit it, ever.  
  
Thankfully, Rachel was a changeling, and thus could be considered almost the Hedge in human-scale and miniature; the once-human fae took to it like fish to (shark-infested) water, and the pack that had mentored Brian, long ago, specialized in fae matters such as navigating the border world. No more than three minutes after Aisha told me about the recent Hedge troubles than a nearby glass pane suddenly turned pitch black-and then the black left said pane, resolving into the shape of a large shadow that seemed to drink up light and warmth. Which then promptly dissipated, revealing Brian in Urshul (read here- _big_ wolf) form, the stocky, redheaded form of Rachel and…  
  
A Jack Russell?  
  
I mean, I knew it was the illusory Mask fae inherently assumed outside the Hedge when they weren’t tapping their full potential (otherwise Rachel would look like a cross between a humanoid Rottweiler and an orc cosplaying as a tiger, as opposed to the somewhat-androgynous bodybuilder I saw now), but still, you didn’t expect... _terriers_ to be hobgoblins.  
  
Before I asked, Rachel gently set the dog down and turned to me, nonplussed. “She’s a cu sith, a fetcher of ghosts to ferry to the Underworld. Her name is Lucy.”  
  
And that was the end of that mystery. Why one got so small was beyond me, but presumably her real form was bigger, or like many dogs she had been bred to be small enough to be carried by nobles (just of rather unearthly aristocrats).  
  
“So,” I said, hosting my pouch of ritual items. “You wanna play detective, or not?”

  


* * *

  
There was two ways to look at the scene of the crime, if that’s what it was.  
  
One was as a bunch of amateur detectives, turning over every stone, hitting the streets, looking for anything out of place, and whatever else a team of enterprising YA mystery protagonists did.  
  
Of course, we were more likely to be the _villains_ of a YA novel (I was an _excellent_ evil cheerleader, I must say), and thus, we also could take the smart option-looking at as a cabal of monsters privy to things no mortal could understand. Why?  
  
“Here. Found this.” Brianl unceremoniously dropped a bunch of bloody clothes that didn’t seem quite real on the ground. “It’s congealed Essence of Desperation. Our victim saw whoever it was coming, and almost got away with it; these kind of things don’t form unless they’re given about a fifteen minute grace period.”  
  
Because we were our own investigator kits, that’s why. Me not the least of them; as a Proximus dynasty, we Merovingians were skilled in all forms of scrying. We “needed to be able to behold all of our domain,” as my parents would put it. Which meant that, if I felt safe enough to do so, I could dissect the world by staring at it long enough.  
  
That was normally a big if; like all Proximi, the Merovingians had a family curse, one that would be aggravated if we went against what the bloodline was intended to be-or we drew too deeply on our magic. Hence why I preferred my skintheiving. But this wasn’t a normal time, which is why I was too busy checking the Supernal World for clues to respond directly. But I did nod and start overlooking the shirt.  
  
It’s...hard, describing the Supernal World. To start with, it wasn’t the Realm true mages Awakened to-except it was. It was the best way the human mind could process the way the Supernal Realm become our reality once filtered across the dread Abyss, at least according to the orthodox Merovingian view of things. So it likely wasn’t like that at all; a more helpful and accurate way would perhaps be “quantum symbolism”, the level of existence where anything and everything was symbolic of something. Interpret the symbols, understand the world; a bloody sword impaling a dragon might be the trace of a justifiable murder, while a resplendent lion striding through a house with a mane of gold is a sign that a powerful CEO likes to visit there (and if you were very unlucky, the lion would notice you-and the CEO would get a gut feeling that someone was invading his privacy).  
  
Of course, I didn’t know the first damn thing about quantum physics, so I preferred to think of it as sort of like a divinely-tuned visual filter; I let the Aether, the specific Realm that my family drew its power from, color my vision and, much like how night-vision goggles saw infrared, I saw the normally invisible traces of the supernatural left on the world.. Which, given how this was the Aether, always had a distinctly... _Judeo-Christian_ vibe to it. There was a reason my patron Realm was called the Abode of Angels, even if my angels were distinctly Old Testament in nature, being more primal adjudicators of physical laws than invisible friends with wings. Seeing where their authority had been countermanded, ignored, loopholed, or outright defied was how we Merovingians investigated the supernatural.  
  
Once the Supernal World swam into view, I delicately began to push the spell a little more, drawing more of the full Aether into the scrying spell-enough that bits not of the Aether (or anything native to any level of reality) began to creep in. Thankfully, I had more than enough mana to fortify it against aforementioned dread Abyss and aggravating the blood curse. Soon, the Supernal World became even sharper-sharp enough to show things not actually of Awakened magic in origin (ie, everything that was not directly related to me or Alec).  
  
The fractal script of the angelic laws that defined the nature of what the concept of “shirt” was, to nobody’s surprise, out of whack when it came to this one. Partially melted by stellar fire and rendered meaningless babble that described two entirely different things in the same paragraph That made sense; right after I was Chosen as one of the true Proximi of the _nahualtin_ , stellar phenomenon was how my old mentors taught me to see invaders from outside my normal reality not native to the Abyss (like the Tzitzimineh themselves, in other words). Still, what were those particular stars…?  
  
Focusing on the torn patches in the shirt itself, I bade the angel known as Time to show me a snatch of what had hurt its brothers-as a mental exercise to help me comprehend something fundamentally alien to the paltry five senses of an animal native to Earth, I did not literally dial up the fourth dimension and ask to take a look at its security camera logs. And indeed, a star swam into view.  
  
The first thing I thought upon seeing the star was “Green.” Green and covered with oddly constant stellar pumices. Like a ball covered in the world’s most dangerous spikes, if the plasma was actually real.  
  
Still, it wasn’t the weirdest star I’d even seen. The weirdest star I ever saw was when I was investigating what turned out to be a being from the Lower Depths-which, as with all its kind, lacked an aspect of what humans call “reality as we know it” (try imagining something that is completely without Identity, even “faceless”, and you’ve got the idea of how mind-screwy it gets). But it was still pretty weird-I got the sense this thing was only holding a constant form because it was its role to do so-in other words, had a true form because it was its Destiny to have a true form to do whatever it needed. Which didn’t sound too strange until you realized that people who say free will doesn’t exist are Sleepiest of magic-blind Sleepers, are deliberately conning you, or using an idiosyncratic definition that is functionally not any different from having the capacity to consciously choose an outcome and be assured that it was entirely you who chose it (the reason it’s so hard to make reliable, clear prophecies more than a day in the future is that Fate posits that free will is pretty much the only true constant when it comes to probability). Quite simply, the star was only holding the spike-plasma shape was simultaneously because someone forced it upon it, and was only keeping the shape because of its unwilling duty, eagerly looking forward to abandoning it.  
  
Which definitely made it the second-strangest star I ever saw. Even Abyssal intruders had something about their form they didn’t deeply resent, even if it was the fundamental violation of reality each embodied. Still, it explained the distinct whiff of Hope-whatever real being that corresponded to this star was definitely looking forward to ending the job and returning to whatever its natural state was.  
  
That, at least, ruled out other werewolves. It was a testament to how concentrated Brockton Bay’s esohuman populace was that I had to do that.  
“See anything we can use as an excuse to leave, yet”  
  
Knocked out of my investigation trance, I turned to an even more sour than usual Rachel. “Hedge not friendly today?” I guessed. “I don’t see any fae guts, so I assume no hobgoblin thought it would be a grand idea to torment Lucy.”  
  
“Try ‘seems to hate life in general,’ and that’s the idea,” Rachel replied, fishing out a thorn from the terrier cu sith’s fur. “Something’s really scared the goblins, made the Thorns a goddamn maze. Had to move quietly too, one of the shadow wolf packs was going into a full feeding frenzy from all the panic-flavored Glamour.”  
  
I nodded sympathetically. “Ouch.” Shadow wolves were the species of canid goblin that, upon having dealt with them, Rachel advocated for their extermination. They were not nice doggies. “Sadly, all I can tell is that whoever attacked our changeling was a shapeshifter, and likely a fae.”  
  
“Okay, so that narrows it down to just about anyone who knows basic Beast Contracts,” Rachel said, even more annoyed. “Knew I should have brought Brutus.”  
  
I managed to bite back my opinion on bringing a human-sized briarwolf to what was ostensibly a _stealth_ mission. “Lucy’s not helping?”  
  
“There’s nothing here for her to latch on,” Rachel said, to the apologetic whine of the terrier sith. “Not a ghost in sight, not even the smell of death. I’m not sure if anything larger than an insect has died here for the past week or so.”  
  
Huh? “ _Nothing?_ ”  
  
Rachel caught on. “I know what you’re thinking, but I don’t think it’s linked to the bastard who got vanished. Brian did the Sacred Hunt rite before we left, and no, there’s no particular distortions in the Gauntlet that would reek of fun with otherworlds.”  
  
Damn. “Well, back to the case, I guess.”  
  
Eventually, Aisha came back, in near-human form. “I’m going to go on a limb here and assume she’s not having much luck with the nose either?” Huh, she switched back to English.  
  
“No,” Brian answered before I did. “How’s the case treating you?”  
  
“Well, unless I’ve spontaneously gone whatever the smell version of colorblind is, I think we can say our perp is capable of teleportation.”  
  
Not for the first time, I wondered exactly how my life led me here, such that it took me a second to ask “Just for the record, was that sarcasm or not?”  
  
“As far as I know, no.” She shrugged. “The scent of whatever’s in the camp doesn’t go that far out. One of the scents-Mr. Kidnapper, I think-goes out a little farther to, oh, three o’clock from us, but-”  
  
“Which way is north?”  
  
Rachel had suddenly appeared from directly behind me, but that wasn’t why I felt a chill that had nothing to do with it being winter.  
  
It was because she only interjected when she was nervous.  
  
“Um…” Aisha pulled out her compass. “Directly in front of-”  
  
“On the _clock_.”  
  
“That would be twelve.”  
  
I started putting the pieces in my head together. A shapeshifter who hated being formed and looked forward to letting go of it, a scent trail that vanished into a place that was neither Shadow nor mortal, panicky goblins, and the fact that the scent trail of the attacker came from three o’clock, which in compass terms meant that the attacker materialized from...  
  
Oh fuck.  
  
From the northeast.  
  
“The attacker came from _kimon_.”  
  
Brian caught on “...Oh. Oh shit.”  
  
Aisha blinked, her eyes turning golden from her own growing anxiety. “Big bro? I wasn’t schooled that well, but I’m pretty sure key-mohn isn’t on a map-”  
  
“Not an English map,” I said, monotone. “Kimon is a Japanese word meaning ‘demon’s gate’, and normally doesn’t figure into the West’s cosmology. But in places where the Directional Courts of Asian changelings hold sway-like say, in Brockton Bay, thanks to Lung-the very nature of their story means that the Hedge reconfigures itself to match their myths.”  
  
I stretched my face into a rictus grin. “Fun Fact: The northeast is called kimon because it’s held to be the direction that wicked spirits enter the world from. Wicked spirits, sort of like a certain kind of shapeshifting fae…”  
  
Now Aisha paled. “...I’ll scout the area. He won’t be after someone who can take him in an even fight.”  
  
“There’s a locus to the west,” Brian said as he crouch  
  
“Don’t blame you,” Aisha replied as she melted out of her clothes and into full-wolf.  
  
Rachel whistled. “Lucy. Escort.”  
  
As Lucy took a defensive posture, I summoned my Supernal sight again, overexertion be damned, and scanned the area for anything that looked like it had recently changed forms completely.  
  
Arcadian Huntsmen, after all, were master shapeshifters.  
  
  


* * *

 

**Mini-Interlude: The Shattered-Wing Savior**

  
The cold felt good. It felt like holiness.  
  
“Friends, I won’t lie. We live in a sinful world. Heck, the _entire world_ is founded in sin. Were it not for the serpent whispering in Eve’s ear, we’d all be living in Eden, rather than out here in the Devil’s empire, where everything we see and breathe is able to kill us.”  
  
Benidiah Clover (a slight Anglicization of his old name, just enough to leave it behind without abandoning it) stepped out from behind his podium, his distinct Bible in hand. Before him, a reasonable crowd stretched. Obscenely small for normal evangelists, but the Brother-Father, as he had been nicknamed, had shed his normality like a despised cocoon. The lost sheep he drew were from small herds to begin with, and they needed the Word even more than Sleeper converts.  
  
“But really, I don’t think that’s a bad thing,” the polo-shirted priest continued, walking around his stage. “Adam and Eve, yeah, they were pure and innocent, true, but can we really call them _holy?_ I mean, they didn’t even know good and evil _existed_ until they ate the apple. If you refer to Jewish tradition, you’d find that Adam, Eve? They lived in a world where good and evil were separate-you had God, and you had Satan. But their descendants, us? We need to think it out, we need to understand what good is-which means that we can actually _try_ to be good, we can _strive_ to be better. Remember, the first thing the couple did was realize what they did was bad, and when God asked them, they told the truth-the first time that had _ever_ been done.”  
  
The implication would be lost on the unlearned mortals who blundered into the audience of the Golden Quorum-but those unknowing disguises for the shadow folk were not what the sermon was meant for. To his Supernal senses, the crowd was a field of wonders and terrors, imps of the strange and wraiths of the unnatural pavening in a glorious celebration of all that was dark and occulted, from werewolf to fae, from fellow mage to despised remnant of the vampires, the stage the very instincts of the collective crowd.  
  
Exiles and outcasts, all of them. As it always was, even before Ben had formally chartered the Golden Quorum. But that was okay; indeed, he named his church that as a reminder, that so long as even one church had faith, the dark was not to be feared. Naturally, he left out of the Sleeper half of his preaching that one should _embrace_ the denizens of the dark instead. They were human too (...partly).  
  
Naturally, in any other city, the Guardians of the Veil would have the warlock priest burned at the stake, metaphorically or otherwise. But Brockton Bay was a city where what was “natural” did not apply as stringently. That was like candy to mages, but it also meant Ben had several months of a head start before the remaining Guardians noticed a missionary whose secrecy consisted of winking constantly during his sermons. By that time, Ben had not only his very public church that people would miss, but his cabal-and a deserved reputation as an expert tutor in Mind magics, one neutral to the ridiculous four-to-six way academic tug of war with knives that was Order politics.  
  
By the time the Guardians had enough political will to at least censure him, the Golden Quorum was on the road, bringing the Good News to the entire country. But even beyond current considerations, Ben liked it in Brockton Bay; it was his true home, not...that place.  
  
“So, I say to you, being kicked out of Eden? Not entirely a bad thing. Friends, to really be _good,_ you have to know what it means to not be good. Otherwise, you, me, everyone? We’re nothing but animals on two legs if we can’t understand why what our temporary lusts and desires suggest might be wrong, or why helping one another is right. The snake did humans a favor, in a sense; without knowledge of good and evil, we couldn’t feel empathy. Couldn’t care if others were hurt. Hell, maybe that was the big idea-could be he just wanted Eve to think he was cute enough to feed.”  
  
That drew a bit of a chuckle. Only a bit, because most people felt kind of patronized when you told them their life being miserable was a good thing, even in part-it was normal for many of Ben’s seats to go unfilled.  
  
Most people were not esohumans, for whom life’s misery was a universal constant. From Ben’s sight of the Pandaemonium within the crowd, the gamboling daimons prostrated before a distinct seventh of the crowd while muttering stories of hubris behind clasped claws and robe sleeves-the way he perceived his fellow sorcerers. Of course, some were other members of the Golden Quorum (in fact, the front row seats had been taken up by four out of the six of them; Jabez would have been there too, except it was his turn to maintain the mystic wards and he used wood whittling to cast his spells-doing it in plain sight would be rude-and Batsheva had her own agenda for the day), but cabals didn’t grow beyond five-to-six members, generally, not without personalities as stubborn and obsessive as mages’ tended to be without undergoing mitosis. Some, inevitably, were spies; not even spies with malicious intent, it was just that mages were notoriously both curious and paranoid. If you were not someone a sorcerer trusted implicitly and you were interesting to them, they would watch you. Most though, were not mages; the daimons knew there was something interesting about them, something extraordinary that they constantly scratched at the subjects to find, but could never find-and Ben suspected that most of the mages were like the other esohumans in the crowd, and came simply to listen.  
  
Well, it wouldn’t be polite to not give them what they came for.  
  
“Everyone knows that, deep down. Why do you think we always think of monsters that can be satisfied with good behavior? Because our souls know that without a danger, we wouldn’t have anything to teach us what was sin. Humans, I think, need monsters to be human.”  
  
That was a gross simplification of his cosmology, of course; the Brother-Father suspected the Sleeper faithful in the crowd would appreciate his story of how the Son and the Holy Spirit led a revolution against the Father. But the summation version worked; the monsters among men understood exactly what the mystical evangelist was implying. That kind of talk always interested the shadow folk, and they would investigate Ben to understand why it was the priest always seemed to be looking directly at them when he said that, eyes filled with understanding and sympathy (a white lie; it was impossible to give the full brunt of his soulful gaze individually without Sleepers noticing, so it was a slight trick of a Space spell to look at every esohuman at once). Inevitably, some would come to love the message of Brother Ben, come to love him-particularly since Deacon Thrush, Ben’s oldest disciple, was very good at directing people to see the best of Ben, and Ben was good at figuring out what part of his best would most appeal to those lost sheep. The Quorum grew by a couple extra members, and a couple members would be saved. Such was the joy of a nascent prophet, to spread the Good News across the world.  
  
Of course, while missionary work was fine and all, there was more than one reason Ben was back. Not for the first time, he thanked God that Mind magic included the ability to divide your consciousness-else, Ben would be panicking on stage, as opposed to his serene “preacher-mind” giving the sermon, while his “mage-mind” drummed his left hand’s fingers nervously inside his Bible.  
  
“That’s what this world is; a test to see if you’re picking up on what He is telling you. Of course, some people fail-that’s okay, but I don’t think the damned appreciate the All Expenses Paid ‘Oh Lord Everything Is Fire’ remedial course.” A chuckle, this one a bit wider across the audience. Good good, that meant there was more-  
  
<Brother-Father, I did it! I really did it!>  
  
His mage-mind sighing in relief (which his preacher-mind quickly played off as pausing for laughter), Ben commanded his thoughts to speed. <Well done, Batsheva! I knew my faith in your brilliance would be rewarded,> he replied over the telepathic link. Another white lie; he thought the plan to animate an altar was a stupid idea, and told his Acanthus disciple as such. Only when Thrush reminded him of Batsheva’s skill with prophecy did he reluctantly relent and trust God (and the dowdy witch’s skill with Fate magics) to provide. <You have a sample of her body, little lamb?>  
  
That nickname provoked one of Batsheva’s trademark giggles, an awkward thing to hear over _telepathy._ <Hee...Not ex-actly.> Oh God, she learned to enunciate syllables mentally. Ben quickly devoted his exasperation to a third mind disconnected from the link-the poor girl didn’t need her savior to be annoyed with her, too. <What I _did_ get was a piece of her cloak-the trap I put reached for the closest thing, and that was the shawl of transformation. That works right!?>, Batsheva quickly added, her mental speech quickly turning frantic. <I mean, it’s important to her, so it’s not like-it is-but she needs so it’s important don’t get mad it’ll work almost as well I tried I tried->  
  
<Calm yourself, Elizabeth.> Right on cue, the overwhelming pressure of Batsheva’s panic eased. Ben had carefully impressed on his most faithful disciple that using the Quorum’s real names was a sign of being quite happy with them. <It is functionally an organ, since she needs it for her abilities. The only better sympathetic link is if, well, you had sex with her, and I do not believe you are into that sort of thing. Barring heady college days.>  
  
Batsheva giggled again, <I’ll get right to prepping the spell, Brother-Father! It’ll be all ready for you and Thrush to link destinies when you’re done with the flock!> And with that, the once-again peppy presence of Batsheva cut the link, leaving Ben’s set of minds to ruminate in the few seconds before normal perception of time resumed.  
  
The mage-mind, calmed and content, checked the modified crucifix Ben’s own patron (not mentor-Ben did not need mentors) had given him out of the corner of his eye. _And so, the Orderer gives sanctuary to the lost and broken_ , Ben mused to himself. _We’re counting on you, Lisa. For both our and her sake._  
  
And as perception resumed its normal rate, the minds joined into one for one for the finale of the sermon, all of Ben’s considerable charisma and faith in tandem.  
  
“But then again, that’s why you’re listening to a preacher, isn’t it? And that will be all. All kneel for the Lord’s Prayer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Believe it or not, Ben is not an OC. He and his cabal belong to Onyx Path, trademark.


	9. Nocturnal 1.3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a quest to rescue a princess is begun.

* * *

 

Over the course of my long (for a teenager) and storied (one story) career as an inhabitant of the hidden world, I had become quite the connoisseur of various methods of retreat, escape, hiding, and other means of getting the fuck away. When you were barely a sorceress who lived among people who tended to form cults simply by being blatant and helpful now and again, you learned how to appreciate the a speedy exit.  
  
The flight from Ben’s area, and the likely hunting grounds of an evil might-as-well-be god’s top minions, was a Controlled Improvised Focused Panic Escape, the kind created when the escaping persons have deeply drilled the standard procedure for running (and Aisha thought we were paranoid), but in which everyone is entirely sure it wouldn’t work as well as it did, and instead go into Unfocused Screaming Defensive Line Charging-Through Escape. In hindsight, maybe we should have done the Tense Orderly Vanishing Retreat instead, and keep our heart rates down; Huntsmen happily gave the mortal world the bird and went safely home after getting their current real target, but then again, Huntsmen who took pride in their work usually got other prey as a bonus (apparently, no Huntsman had ever realized Stockholm Syndrome was a bad thing).  
  
Still, we had Rachel; even beyond certain qualities conferred by her more-or-less being a naturalized citizen of the Hedge that made her extremely useful for evading Huntsmen in general, she was like any other reasonably sane changeling who lived out of her territory in the Hedge; a well-appointed, de-Thorned Hollow, an island of stability in the ever-shifting dream world. One she specifically designed for being a refuge from Huntsmen for a few days until the coast was clear.  
  
“Move. Brutus, move.”  
  
Of course, the problem was that Rachel’s Hollow was by no means meant for guests/refugees. Well, okay, it was meant for _one_ kind of refugee, but no more. To put it simply, Rachel lived in a dog shelter she thought into being with her own two lobes, and given how this was the Hedge, all of her canine tenants were born as canid goblins, were normal dogs who became canid goblins, Arcadian dogs who became canid goblins, or possibly dog-like people who became canid goblins. The Hedge welcomes all who wish to become part of its ecology of debt and dream.  
  
More to the point, this also meant there was precisely one bed meant for a hominid alone, and Rachel would rather march back to Arcadia herself than share it with a non-goblin; really, it was a testament to how close we were friends that Rachel even let the other Undersiders know where the Hollow was located, let alone _sleep_ there until we were sure the Huntsman wasn’t coming back.  
  
Hence, why I was trying very hard to convince the aforementioned briarwolf to curl up at least enough so I could fit. He was not cooperating.  
  
“Nrro.” To make it totally clear, Brutus spread himself out even more, angling his arms to cover everything his tail wasn’t.  
  
Bit of background: A briarwolf, or goblin-were, is a man-sized fae that happens to resemble a classic Hollywood werewolf (which I had ceased to enjoy, on the basis my racist alarm kept on going off ever since I met Brian)-a mix of human and lupine features, favoring lupine, though exactly what parts were wolf and which were man differed between briarwolves. In fact, many Lost theorized their ancestors were a hunting party who got lost in the Hedge and acclimatized while the humans emulating their own hunting hounds even while still teaching their hounds to hunt like humans, with the Hedge making that literal, both human and dog becoming the same species. I knew there was at least some rumors of curses that would gradually turn a human into a briarwolf, but changelings were gossips; they didn’t particularly care if the danger was credibly sourced or not, only that it was a _danger_.  
  
But I digress. Briarwolves felt like wolves, but there were human enough to plan like humans, and more to the point understand language. That did not mean that they were domesticated-as Brutus was happily proving, at their friendliest briarwolves regarded sentient non-goblins as unwelcome intruders when in their territory, but unfortunately, Rachel’s briarwolf friends had the only human-sized beds as well.  
  
“Come on, Brutus,” I said, desperately. “Everyone else is asleep already, and your friend needs me. I’m her eyes when watching out for...competitive predators,” I finished, lamely. I realized about then that being the closest thing the Hedge had to an apex predator species meant Brutus probably didn’t really get the idea of his beloved caretaker being in any way prey.  
  
“Slreep with therm.” Brutus replied, scoffing (a weird hybrid between a bark and a growl, coming from him).  
  
“That’s the problem,” I replied, rubbing my temple. “Brian and Aisha can become wolves and sleep like that, Alec can enchant his mind into thinking he’s comfortable, but me? I can’t really sleep as a bat, because everything I feel in that form tells me I should still be awake. I’ll be nearly asleep, and Rachel’s more in danger during the day.”  
  
Brutus opened an eye. “...Whyy does shre need yrr? She strrong.”  
  
“Yes, but everyone can be ganked by an ambush,” I replied, relieved to finally find something that he could understand. “You’ve taken down much stronger rivals because you surprised them and stalked them.”  
  
Brutus appeared to consider this “...I slreep on the big mross.” Reluctantly, he finally curled up, leaving a bit of the moss-covered tree shelf he had for a bed free for me.  
  
Thank gods. I did not need insomnia to alloy with my paranoia.

 

* * *

 

 _The sound of animal life.  
  
The smell of wines.  
  
The distinct shivering of trees being treated to clearing fires. I winced, but said nothing; my liege hated it when her functionaries showed any doubt, even incidental. It upset the Guests to see the servants perturbed.  
  
“Not good enough,” the Lady grunted. “It took me only a turn of the moon for my pathfinder to map you. If even one steward, barely dry from being drilled into something worthwhile, can defeat your thicket, so can anyone of actual puissance.” She turned to me, curtains ruffling as the windows twisted in their foundation. “Speaking of the deviless, good showing. I grant you leave to keep curation of the museum.”  
  
A powerful feeling of relief washed over me. The museum was the Mistress’s most prized possession, which meant it was well-kept, and more importantly, guarded against the elements. A treasure guard was, for a brief time, kept by duty in a warm place, a place of actual sound as various Guests of the Manor came and went. Even the frequent floggings when we smudged a case with the cheap soap she gave us, the trips to the Anatomy Hall should we misplace a trinket from Earth was something of a reward. After suffering in the Wild Halls with Bolevile’s perfect recreation of what her more alien Guests favored, it was quite a relief to sleep in an actual room with what was merely whip and scalpel scars. For me, I had learned the trick of getting the rats to take the blame for missorting, which the Mistress allowed; the innards of rats and goblins were just as interesting for the Guests to toy with as human, and it allowed greater efficiency.  
  
If only that wasn’t where the Claviger lived. As if this fucking house couldn’t be cruel enough on her own.  
  
“My offer still stands, Taylor,” he said, his bronze teeth reeking of gloss. “I’m sure this time will be different.”  
  
Go away. I didn’t need to be punished again. My only reaction was to reflexively cover the furred crack from when Bolevile “repurposed” me for hunting events.  
  
“Come now, I like your style!” he replied, jingling the Keys Outside. “You haven’t lost your spark, yet-that’s why She lets you be the beta tester for her entertainments.”  
  
And part of those entertainments myself, whenever I lost to the Claviger. “Not up to it right now,” I bade the wind to whisper, willing my roots to grow into the exhibits, it was easier for me to “see” them that way.  
  
“Oh, okay,” he said, shrugging. “I just thought, now that you’re a flower bush again for a while-it lets me indulge my inner chess fiend. Lots of time.” Said the man who never met a variant he didn’t like. I knew, and was entirely sure he chose the kinds we servants were bad at. Realizing how reluctant he was to let us win was what made me sure he was serious about smuggling us out if we beat him.  
  
Too bad I was crap at his games too. Increasingly, I caught myself wondering if being in Lady Bolevile’s patronage was so bad-her punishments were harsh, but she kept her reasoning logical and only hurt you if you upset her. Increasingly, it was hard to remind myself that the living manor was upset very easily, and one of her favorite punishments was turning you over to the more illogical Guests.  
  
And so I cleaned, barely acknowledging other goblin-butlers that I sincerely hoped weren’t other transformed humans. Bolevile hated her servants interacting outside of their jobs, too, and she found out quite easily.  
  
“So, who’s your friend?”  
  
Eh!?  
  
I...well, not looked, I didn’t have eyes. But I could smell, and command the creatures that lived in me to relay what they saw and heard to me. They heard and saw nothing-but as I checked, I noticed something. Bolevile’s perfume? ...No, hers was more ‘refined’, this smelled like plants before they were crushed.  
  
The Claviger tapped one of my buds. “Right, apologies, I forget you can’t see them. Quick riddle:  
  
In your future and in your past  
I come and go so senseless and fast  
My purpose is unknown to all  
Remembrance seems to drift then fall  
I travel by night and fade by day  
Because that is my common way  
  
What am I?”  
  
Wait. My liege said something about her perfume being made of-  
  
“A dream,” the wind whispered.  
  
“Quite indeed. It seems we have a dream nestled in your branches. Perhaps she’s friendly-”  
  
“Get out,” the goblin-bush’s speechwind immediately whispered. “It’s not safe for you here; Bolevile will freak if she finds you in my thoughts.”  
  
I would if I...could…  
  
Wait, wasn’t I the bush?  
  
“Wow, the Fae must have really did a number on you,” the speechwind said. “But...if you aren’t sure if you’re me, that means you’re in my head, so…”  
  
I felt murine feet on a central branch.  
  
“Sorry, but this is for both our sakes. Wake up.”  
  
A chomp._  
  
“OUCH! SHIT!”  
  
I tumbled out of bed, and was immediately bitten for real by an upset Brutus. “Sorry! Ow.”  
  
Brutus didn’t dignify that a with a response beyond an exasperated bark before angling himself to cover the bed again. Ah well, I didn’t think I could sleep again anyway. Not after I screamed that loud.  
  
There was a sudden crunching noise before a pair of very large wolves bounded into the clearing, ears pinned and growling.  
  
“Sorry guys!” I said, holding up a hand. “Just a dream. Not a nightmare, just a dream.”  
  
The wolves’ ears perked up and their hackles fell-a direct contrast to their eyes narrowing even further in a very non-lupine manner. Shortly thereafter, the lupines melted away to reveal the very unamused Laborn siblings.  
  
“I. Hate. The Hedge.” Aisha rubbed her eyes, looking like she had just reanimated from a decade-old corpse, and from her expression felt like it. “Too many scents, too many moving things. It’s like sleeping in the middle of a car engine, _sound apparently included._ ”  
  
“She’s not like us, sis,” Brian said, looking marginally better. “Her soul isn’t spoken for, and so-”  
  
“English, Brian.”  
  
“Sleeping in a place that eats human dreams means the human brain senses a predator,” Brain finished. “It’s a recipe for nightmares.”  
  
Well, that was true, except-hang on, what was that on the back of my-  
  
A larger crunch, before Rachel, nightstick in hand, showed up with two of the more canid goblins.  
  
“Hedge nightmare,” Brian said automatically.  
  
The nightstick retracted. “You’re fucking joking. I got up because Lisa _wet the bed?_ ”

  
“Er, about that,” I said, holding up a hand. “I’m not sure it was-”  
  
“ _Boo!_ ”  
  
The crunch was from me nearly tripping over myself to face the final member of the Undersiders, currently giving his best shit-eating grin. No, I did not scream, although I did startle a bit,  
  
“Alec! How did you-wait.” I rubbed my forehead. “You finally figured out how to use the Hedge to conjure goetia.”  
  
“Ding! Also, crap.” He shrugged. “I was hoping to get blackmail material first. You talk in your sleep a lot-also, I never took you for someone who liked bunnies.”  
  
Funny, neither did I. “Okay, can we quit the witty banter up front?” I held up my hand. “Do you see a bite here?”  
  
Alec looked very pointedly at my briarwolf-gnawed leg. “Seriously? I thought you got bored and worked on your amateur tribal tattoo designs.”  
  
“See previous statement. On the _hand,_ Alec.”  
  
Say what you would about my teammate not understanding time nor place, he was perceptive. “...What’s with the mouse chompers?”  
  
“That’s what I’m saying.” I turned the offending bite to the team. “Rachel, do you know any rodentine goblins that cause dreams of Arcadia?”  
  
“Wait, _what?_ ” Rachel looked completely at attention now. “You were dreaming of _Arcadia!?_ ”  
  
“Based on all the evidence, yep.” I shrugged, too exhausted to be scared. “Where else would you dub a house a living being and dreamt you were a sentient rose bush playing games with one of non-Keeper fae?”  
  
Rachel suddenly rushed at me, gingerly picking me up by the waist before I had a chance to react, glancing at a goblin dog, who immediately got what she was indicating and trotted off.  
  
And was immediately tripped up by a sudden twist in space courtesy of Alec, now facing the warlock who was making a “time-out” gesture  
  
“Um, I hate to disrupt the mobilization scheme, but I don’t think this is dream-poison.” Alec suddenly interrupted. When I turned to him, I could feel the sudden pinching of nerves that was his active Nimbus, the aura mages released when casting spells. “It’s...weirder. And _Supernal._ ”  
  
Wait. _What?_  
  
Apparently sensing the confusion, Alec continued. “It’s like she was astrally projecting while she was sleeping. Er, that means her mind was outside her body, Aisha. And that’s an Awakened thing.”  
  
“Does that mean we finally get a fireball catapult?” Aisha asked, hopefully.  
  
“Unfortunately, no,” I replied, muffled through Rachel’s shoulder. “That’s the kind of thing you’d get if you were becoming a Mastigos like Alec, and Merovingians are an Obrimos lineage-it’s not _impossible,_ but it’s not likely, that I’d Awaken as anything else, and then I’d be seeing angels and storms.”  
  
Then I realized something. “Alec, scan my mind for the presence of another having been there. Focus on the name ‘Taylor’.”  
  
A second later, Alec nodded. “Yep, there’s a ping-someone named Taylor’s been in your brain. Why, you owe some dork tass?”  
  
A- _ha_. “Actually, I think I was in _hers_. Come back to me after we sleep-I smell a Mystery. Also, can you put me down now? This is getting kind of awkward.”

 

* * *

  
“Okay, this? This is officially a decent big break.” Alec took of his mask, looking rather nonplussed. “I know several Consilium members who would _break and enter_ to get this.”  
  
I rose an eyebrow.  
  
“What, it’s not something that would lead directly to more power and/or survival. Mages aren’t unrestrained people.” Aisha snickered a little bit. “But still, what’s going on with you-it’d be creepy if it wasn’t so cool.”  
  
The eyebrow rose a little further. Mages generally were the kind of people who, upon seeing an army of zombies, generally marveled at the kind of power required to animate so many corpses at once (after finding safety-they weren’t stupid). They had to be-something about perceiving the unfiltered source code of reality meant you had to be the kind of person who _enjoyed_ a raw dose of capital-letters Occult Truth. Not happy life-affirming messages about accepting your life at it is before actually working on changing it, but that there _is_ an eldritch god in the lake that grants wishes in return for blood sacrifice, and it’s likely the beloved senator is a client of the thing (also, my landlord for a bit-in all honesty, the deal was probably worth it).  
  
Alec didn’t notice, or more likely, didn’t care. “Really, I’m glad dear ol' Dad told me to get the basics of Fate down-otherwise, I don’t think I’d be able to notice this.” He stroked his chin, nodding. “I...don’t know if I have the words to describe it, but I guess the best term would be how your mind interprets your soul being in contact with _another_ soul.”  
  
...What  
  
Aisha put it best. “Wait,” she said, a grin slowly spreading across her face. “Are you saying that good ol’ double-T has a _soulmate?_ ”  
  
Alec tried very hard to keep a straight face. “Um, no, but if I met someone who actually had one, it probably would be good training wheels. Seriously, there’s no emotions attached to it, much less remembered devotion from a previous life.” He cocked his head, looking amused. “Honestly, with how trollish Lisa can be, I’d expect more of a soul- _foe_ instead. All those delightful little bodice rippers never seem to quite get the mechanics behind behind Theosophy-”  
  
“The _point,_ ” Rachel all-but-growled. “Get to it.”  
  
“Basically, Lisa’s destiny seems to have been _intertwined_ with that of another person.” He held up his hands, conjuring the impression of a pair of strings weaving through each other-on one end was a doll of me, and on the other end...a silhouette with a question mark for a face. Of course. “In effect, destiny has decreed you and whoever is on the end-Taylor, if the dream is any indication-are going to meet at some point. Maybe even become a new member of the Undersiders, though it could be they are our fated nemesis. I can’t tell from the strand itself.”  
  
“Mm-hm. And the reason I’m in their mind when they dream?”  
  
“Simple. You’re in the Hedge, and they’re a Kept changeling.”  
  
If there was liquid in my mouth, I would have sprayed it out. Instead I mouthed stupidly before Brian spoke for me. “Huh?”  
  
“Well, okay, they _may_ be some sort of lesser Arcadian fae,” Alec admitted, shrugging. “But by the look of things they definitely have a human enough mind to confuse for that of a non-lucid sleeping person if that person starts picking up their thoughts due to the Hedge serving as an accidental signal booster.”  
  
I started to catch on. “So whenever I dream in the Hedge, I have such a strong connection to them that I end up accidentally projecting my mind into them.” I nodded. “Great. So, how do I stop it?”  
  
“Exit the Hedge, I guess.” Alec shrugged. “Of course, that also means we’re out of Rachel’s Hollow and vulnerable to Huntsmen-and I think whoever the one currently prowling about is, he can probably smell that link. It’s going to need a better Fate mage than me to sever that.”  
  
So, to stop a listening wire that leads directly to the same reasons Rachel was so prickly, expose self directly to chief goon of said reasons. Not to mention deal with mages who knew who Alec was, and weren’t inclined to help with a great deal of bribery.  
  
Shit.  
  
I rubbed my forehead sighing. “Any way to _mute_ it? Taylor didn’t seem happy that I was in there.”  
  
“More likely they thought you were another changeling,” Rachel suddenly said. “I don’t know Bolevile, but I know my Keeper hated fraternizing slaves. Could be an escape attempt in the making, you never knew.”  
  
Well, that made sense. Coordination, even if it didn’t go anywhere tended...to heal...spirits…  
  
“...Rachel,” I said slowly. “Wasn’t it being reminded of Earth’s dogs that helped you escape?”  
  
Alec guessed what I was getting at. “Seriously? NO!” He twisted space a bit to get in my face without actually being in slapping distance. “While I can understand freeing people from Fairy Hell is kind of its own reward, doesn’t this seem, I dunno, _a bit risky?_ ”  
  
“Because it’s Fairy Hell, and there’s someone stuck there I can help out of being stuck in a mad social role.” I smiled. “It makes Bolevile tracking us through the soul link a moot point, and we get a grateful buddy in addition. Honestly, what kind of priestess would I if I couldn’t help lost sheep out of bad situations and into my waiting embrace?” That, and whoever Taylor was, they seemed about ready to give up. Not on my watch. Never again.  
  
“That their Keeper _will_ follow you if she figures out what’s going on?” Rachel suggested. “Particularly given how we’re _in the Hedge?_ ”  
  
“Well, not now,” I admitted. “I kind of want to be finally paid for our job first. _Then_ I can start planning on the slave liberation.”  
  
Brian nodded. “I’ll see if Aisha and I can’t find any protection rites we could use to hide from the True Fae.”  
  
Rachel winced. “Ugh. You too, boss?”  
  
“Hey, look who you’re talking too,” Aisha said, her smile growing a bit strained. “Since when are the _Laborns_ going to _not_ vote to stop abuse?”  
  
“Urgh…” Alec threw up his hands. “I hate democracy sometimes. I _really_ hope you have a good plan for this.”

 

* * *

  
“You five are some of the worst planners I have ever had the misfortune to work with.”  
  
After the events of hiding from a shapeshifting demon that might or might not be still present, actually getting to Piggot for the debrief was...blissfully boring.  
  
Not so much the debrief itself, though, as the Major had taken the discovery we spent two days hiding in the Hedge as a sign we were complete idiots, and due to certain promises I had made to Rachel, I had to bite back my tongue about her secret Hollow.  
  
“To be fair,” I said instead of the apologetic I desperately wanted to recite, “Huntsmen aren’t really fans of the Hedge. They really don’t like risk.”  
  
Piggot looked rather unconvinced. “I didn’t take you for a gambling addict, if that’s your best defense.”  
  
“Hey, Bi- _Hellhound_ is an expert Hedge navigator,” I replied. I left out that was because she was pretty much a native to the Hedge by now-VALKYRIE really didn’t like goblins in general, as part of their general all-American image of We Hate Alien Invaders (having met Abyssal intruders, didn’t really hold it against them, it just lacked a bit of nuance). “And of us, only I have sanity put in danger by the Throrns, especially given how Imp and Grue are members of the Lodge of Annwn.”  
  
Piggot’s brow furrowed. “I’m not familiar with werewolf politics. Who are they, again?”  
  
“Specialists in hunting malevolent fae. Well, more people who try to twist stories to their advantage, but that’s primarily fae” I replied, automatically. “Part of their patron’s gifts involves the ability to tolerate the Thorns for a long period of time.”  
  
“Ah.” She didn’t sound particularly convinced by that caveat.  
  
“Hey, look at it from our perspective,” I began, holding up my hands. “We are sent into the middle of a notoriously private mage’s territory with full knowledge there’s a potential murderer on the loose, we barely sneak in without anyone noticing, and after looking around at a pretty bloody scene, we realize the perpetrator is literally a living nightmare.” I locked eyes with Piggot. “I’d say it’s rather _considerate_ of us to let you know, _in advance,_ that were were going to be in hiding for a few days, and the reason why.”  
  
Thank you, spirit informants. While this would seem like passive-aggression (and it was), there was some very specific phrasing in there that I aimed straight at the Major’s own personal sympathy buttons.  
  
True enough, her brow unfurrowed a bit, though her expression didn’t precisely soften. “My apologies. That was a very pertinent warning, and it’s likely you saved lives in the long term if we know the Keepers are going on the offensive again.”  
  
“You’re forgiven,” I said, lowering my arms. “It’s just been a _really_ long week, and I want to get paid, is all.”  
  
Piggot nodded. “The cash will be transferred to a location of your choice using the usual bank. We realized you were probably in need of the Musul Akade soon after you returned, so we have it in a warehouse over by Duke’s Street.” She slid over a form. “Show them this, and when they ask you who’s work you do, reply ‘not the devil’s, as we aren’t idle’.”  
  
“Got it. Thank you for your patronage.” I took the form, relieved that we knew where our hive-minded guard dog was.  
  
After all, he was pretty key to our plan to free Taylor.0

 

* * *

  
“...Seriously?” Alec shook his head. “When I said ‘good plan’, I didn’t mean ‘half-cocked experiment based on a hunch’.”  
  
I couldn’t resist. “Really? But you’re a mage-I thought that _was_ a good plan to you.”  
  
“Exactly! You’re in the same caliber as the esohuman type that _broke reality._ I’m a bit nervous.”

  
“ _Is still_ breaking reality,” I replied, watching the local ants start to dance in patterns insects generally didn’t do. The Akade needed to stretch its muscles and practice coordinating its host swarm, I guess. “Paradox isn’t called that because it’s a radical defiance of conventional thought, man.”  
  
“All right, the Unnerve Aisha Even More Competition is over, guys.” Aisha, looking queasy even in Dalu form, walked over to the dancing ants. “How’s this thing supposed to help?  
  
“I _think,_ ” Brian began, uncertainly, “That the ants are going to work as a sort of...signal repeater, I guess? At least, that’s what I overheard.”  
  
“Sort of.” I replied, rolling up my sleeves. “Actually, it’s more like a botnet-the Musul Akade, according to all my lore, don’t so much possess their host swarms so much as copy their intellects into the minds of their hosts, and the little demi-Akades operate by ordering their hosts around. It sounds the same, but it’s more of a two-way street; the core mind of the Musul Akade is reshaped to think like the animal that comprises its swarm.”  
  
Brian nodded, slowly. “O..kay. And this will help how?”  
  
“Bit of a computer lesson-a botnet is a bunch of computers that have been infected by a virus and linked together into, er, one very large computer.” I rubbed a bit of cream on my skin. “A very large computer that’s a lot more efficient and solving passwords and breaking encryption.”  
  
Aisha lit up. “I get it-you’re using the hive mind as a buddy.”  
  
“Precisely,” Alec replied, wincing. “True Fae defend their territory with riddles and challenges, and if Lisa has a guardian who Keepers are generally not expecting, to match wits with, it will be a crapton easier. They don’t expect a bunch of little minds _and_ a big mind working in tandem.”  
  
“Ah.” A beat passed. “Hey wait, then why are you-”  
  
“I have to convince our guard dog to agree to this,” I said, smiling the world’s fakest smile. “Which means I have to convince him I’m not a threat-like say, showing how vulnerable I am willing to be towards his hosts.”  
  
“... _Oh._ ” Aisha took a good look at the ants. “...These aren’t fire ants, are they? I don’t want to hide a functional eczema patient for the next two weeks.”  
  
“Nope,” I said glumly. “Just an idiot who looks like she’s been sunning herself for three days straight.”  
  
“...You have my deepest respect for taking one for the team,” Brian said, shaking his head in disbelief.  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
As I took off my shirt to rub as much anti-itch lotion as I could on me, all I could think of was how this was going to be a long couple weeks.  
  
Dear gods, let me do this one good thing properly.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Going to be off to my internship pretty soon, so have the last chapter for a bit. I have a computer, but it’s small-and more importantly, I’ll have what is functionally an honest 9-to-5 job for a couple months. So, expect delays.


End file.
